L'Ange Noir
by dontstealmyvitaminies
Summary: In an isolated castle by the sea, Erik and his reluctant pupil must learn to love and bear each other after one promise to a dying man leads to kidnapping, betrayal, obsession and revenge. This angel won't let Christine be taken so easily from his grasp.
1. The Kidnapping

**A/N: So, I posted this story a while ago and then pulled it as I was finding it too difficult to keep up with two full-length fics at once. Now, as I have just finished high school and I have no life, I'm free to write whenever I want, and feel I can give this story justice. I attempted to write it when I wasn't mature enough, but it's been buzzing around in my head for a few years, and even though I'm doing two other fics right now, I really love posting stories. **

**This is set in early 21st century but isn't thoroughly 'modern', and draws from the film, stage production of both the Phantom and Love Never Dies, and both Kay and Leroux's books, but not heavily on any. It's Erik/Christine, with no major Raoul bashing, but he's not the good guy in this, I can assure you. **

**Anyway, please enjoy, and give me feedback!**

"Christine! Christine, you stupid girl, get up _now_!" came a shrieking call from downstairs.

Christine rolled over in bed with a sigh. She glanced at the clock – it wasn't even six in the morning. Something had to be wrong if La Carlotta Guidicelli was awake at such an hour.

"Madame? Is everything alight?" she questioned, trying to hide a yawn as she hurried downstairs to the ground floor of the handsome Parisian townhouse, to find her employer standing in the kitchen, still dressed in her elaborate, lacy nightgown with a pronounced scowl on her once beautiful face.

"Why aren't you up yet? Angelo wet his bed last night. You should have known! The brat crawled into _my_ bed, sobbing his little heart out," she snapped, slamming the coffee pot down on the bench. Christine sighed.

"Of course. I'll change his sheets, Madame Guidicelli," she mumbled, turning to the kettle to fill it with hot water for Carlotta's morning coffee.

"And mine, the brat almost ruined those too. And while you're at it, change Luigi's, too. I don't want to take any chances," she commanded pointedly. Christine nodded as she bustled around the kitchen to make breakfast for the family. "You're to take the boys out this morning; I need rest today before Monsieur Firmin's birthday party. They need to be at my sister's this afternoon, and I want the house cleaned from top to bottom before I get back tonight," she listed, while inspecting her nails.

Christine merely nodded as she hurried to fix the tea and coffee.

"What are you still doing here? Go change, you have to get the bread!" Carlotta shrieked not a moment later. It took the young girl, barely even seventeen, only a few minutes to rush upstairs, change hurriedly and then run out into the Parisian street, mushy snow lining the footpath as she dashed down to the nearest bakery on the corner of the road. The handsome young baker's son sent her a sympathetic smile as she entered for the morning's baguettes and croissants, and a block of chocolate for the hot drinks throughout the day.

"Salut, Christine. Ça va?" Bastien smiled handsomely the moment she stepped into the bakery.

"Carlotta woke up early today. I'm going to have my hands full," she sighed miserably. He winced as he started to wrap up her usual order.

"Are you busy tonight? Or is your beau taking you out?" he questioned, passing over the parcels as she handed him the money. She laughed.

"Raoul is visiting his parents in Marseilles, Bastien. And anyway, I need to clean the house tonight," she apologised, taking the change and leaving with a small, apologetic smile. Bastien laughed.

He'd try again tomorrow, just like he tried every day.

Mornings were not Christine's favourite time of day. It was a huge effort to get the two boys, Angelo and Luigi out of bed and changed, and then they needed to have breakfast, which was always quite a trial. As the family ate she ran upstairs to strip all the sheets off the beds and put them in the washing machine, and she had just enough time to replace them with new ones before Angelo's wails of boredom made it perfectly clear it was time for the boy's morning walk, and Piangi and Carlotta sent them from their sight. So, bundled up with the boys and Carlotta's two evil poodles she found herself outside in the cold February morning.

By the time the day had passed and night had fallen she had been dragged from one end of Paris to the other and all she wanted was to crawl into a warm bed and just sleep. She cursed quietly as she glanced up to the sky on her way home from Carlotta's sister's house. The heavens were surely not on her side as the clouds opened, and rain started to fall hard and fast. She sighed, it was a ten minute jog to her employer's home, and there was no way she was going to avoid being drenched to the bone. Pulling up the collar of her jacket, she started dash over quickly growing puddles, her shoes spelching in the damp, mushed snow-covered grass. She was shivering by the time that she stepped into the front foyer of the townhouse.

"Christine? _Christine_? Where are you, you little brat?" she heard Carlotta screech loudly the moment she opened the door. Christine pushed back her curtain of dripping chocolate curls to stare over at her livid employer's scowling face. "You're _late_!" she cried furiously.

"I'm sorry, Carlotta, but your sister said her husband had been sick yesterday and I didn't want to bring the boys home tomorrow without any medicine –" she tried to explain as she clumsily pulled the crumpled up brown paper bag from her pocket with lithe, trembling fingers, taking out the little glass bottle as proof, but her words were interrupted by Carlotta's screech.

"_No_! I had to finish wrapping Monsieur Firmin's birthday present _myself_ because _you_ hadn't done it!" she cried furiously, her face steadily turning red as she screamed at the young girl.

"I – I'm sorry – b – but I thought I would be back sooner, b – but I missed my bus, so I had to walk," she stammered as a response. She winced as Carlotta brought her hand down swiftly against her cheek, the loud smack filling the room.

"_No_ more excuses, Christine. Now I will be _late_ because of you," she screeched furiously, wrenching open the cupboard, and pulling out a heavy fur coat to cover her short black evening gown, far too many diamonds hanging around her wrinkling neck and from her sagging earlobes.

The sound of a taxi honking loudly from outside announced that it was time for the Prima-Donna to leave.

"Now I told you this morning, but you obviously didn't listen. I want the _whole_ house cleaned from top to bottom before I return, or else I won't pay you for this week, Christine," Carlotta announced, snatching up her purse from the hanger by the door. She sent one last cold glare to her employee before wrenching open the front door and stepping outside with an angry huff.

Christine sighed miserably, rubbing her cheek softly to numb the stinging pain. She had wished so dearly to simply slap Carlotta in return, to show her that she _wasn't_ just something that could be trodden on, but, she reminded herself, she _needed_ her job, or she would end up on the streets or working in a brothel with nowhere to live.

Picking up the fallen bottle of cough syrup, she wiped its glassy surface and rose to her unsteady feet. Running a hand through her dripping dark locks, she shivered, and quickly bustled into the kitchen, putting the bottle on the bench.

The grand townhouse was so very cold. She gave another involuntary shiver as she quickly headed upstairs, running her hands up and down her forearms to generate warmth. She slipped into the guest bathroom and turned on the shower, hot steam filling the room quickly, warming her before she had even got in.

She spent a long time in the shower, wishing that the hot water could wash away her sorrow as well as it washed away her tears. She _hated_ working for Carlotta and Piangi and their horrible children, but a job was a job, and if she didn't work, she would lose her visa and be sent back to Switzerland to be thrown into some foster home, or sent back to her awful cousin who threw his empty wine bottles at her when he was drunk.

No, she realised with great sadness, she had no other options than to continue to work for Carlotta until she could afford to go to University and rent her own place. The pay was decent enough, and she had no living expenses, not to mention the location. She was living in the centre of Paris, what more could she want?

A life of her own, she thought with a sigh as she sat herself in front of the large Victorian fireplace in the living room, drying her long dark hair with a towel. She stared into the glowing flames, barely seeing them as her mind wandered.

The sharp ringing of the doorbell returned her to her senses, and she immediately rose to her feet, frowning as she headed into the hall. Who could it be? Carlotta and Piangi both had keys, why would they need to ring the bell? Was it a friend of theirs?

No, she thought with a stale snort, Carlotta _had_ no friends, only followers from the theatre who were too stupid to see what a horrible woman she truly was. Pulling the door open with curiosity, she stared out into the dark night, rain still seeping from the charcoal clouds.

The man was large. Tall, well over six foot, and lean, and took up most of the front entrance with his mere presence; not only his body, clothed in a dark trench coat, covering black trousers, black shoes, a black jacket and shirt, a black scarf wrapped carelessly around his neck. His hair was so dark it could have been black, and was reasonably long, brushed back with impeccable care from his rather handsome face, but it had a slight curl that danced over his collar wonderfully.

He was probably the most attractive man that she had ever seen. He had an amazing bone structure with a strong jaw and impeccable cheekbones, every curve and line looking like it had been cut by angels with a golden chisel. He had a very noble, very _beautiful_ look about him that was also very dark and intimidating. He was like every handsome hero in all the books Christine had ever read, standing before her with his pale, burning eyes, the colour of a stormy sky, charcoal, with the slightest flash of milky blue.

The only thing strange about his whole appearance was that on one side of his face, he wore a porcelain white quarter mask. It covered only a small section of his face, but her eyes were drawn to it in curiosity. She felt like she had suddenly forgotten the ability to speak, she was hypnotised by the man's extraordinarily dark beauty and those burning eyes.

"_Bonsoir_," he greeted finally, in a deep, velvety voice that just seemed to envelop her, it was musical and held a… hypnotising quality to it.

"I – I am sorry, monsieur, b – but Madame and Monsieur Piangi are both out. They won't return till late," she stammered nervously, wringing her slender hands together. The man smiled slightly, his beautiful lips curved upwards.

"I know, mademoiselle," he replied simply, his velvety tones once more wrapping around her body. She nervously chewed her lip, and tugged on a lock of drying dark hair.

"Uh – I – I can leave them a message, I – if you wish," she murmured, wringing her hands together once more, unsure of why the man made her feel so… ill at ease.

"That will not be necessary. Madame Carlotta will be angry for the inconvenience, but she won't worry, I can assure you," he informed her, stepping forwards. Christine instinctively stepped backwards. He gave a deep, breathy chuckle, causing shivers to run down Christine's spine. "You need not fear me, Mademoiselle Daaé," he murmured.

"I do not – h – how do you know my name?" Christine exclaimed suddenly, her dark eyes widening in shock. She instantly reached for the door handle. "I think you need to leave," she decided firmly. The man smiled.

"That it no way to treat a guest, Mademoiselle Daaé," he replied, his pale eyes twinkling as he looked down at Christine.

"I apologise for being a poor hostess, monsieur, but you need to leave now," she stated, her voice wavering only slightly as she moved to slam the door. The man caught it with one gloved hand, fighting her effort to shut it on him with no great challenge. He looked amused at her attempts. "Go away!" she cried, growing anxious.

"Christine, stop," he ordered her simply. For a moment, his voice startled her, its lyrical quality running shivers down her spine, and that moment was enough for the man to push the door open. She fell to the floor, being shaken from her daze, and immediately startled to frantically edge away from him, scrabbling to her feet. She unsteadily rose, and rushed to the stairs.

She felt him catch her ankle and she fell with a scream, raising her hands to stop her from hitting her head on the steps. She struggled against his grip to get free, blood throbbing through her veins, her entire body gripped in fear. That fear gave her enough adrenaline to break free from his grasp, and she quickly dashed upstairs, running into her room without a moment's thought.

She bit back a scream as she slammed the door shut and pulled the lock across, frantically running her hands through her hair. Her whole body was gripped with fear. Hastily she caught sight of the open window, rain still pouring outside, and she instantly pulled open the draw at her bedside table. Grabbing an old ballet bag that held her treasures and a small torch, she rushed to the window and started to pull at the latch.

She whimpered in fear as she heard him ascend the stairs. He didn't seem to move with great speed, as if he knew that she was helpless to resist. She was now trembling violently, so much so that she could hardly open the window. Screaming as she heard his hand at the doorknob, she finally wrenched it open, and climbed out onto the ledge.

The night was dark, the rain pouring around her. She screamed again in fear as a huge bolt of lightning ripped across the heavens, thunder cracking around her. Trembling and now shivering in the icy coldness, she hazarded one bare foot forwards, searching for support on the slippery tiles. If she could only move across to the bathroom window, she could climb down the pipe and jump to the swaying tree branch...

Mustering all her courage, she put another foot forwards, and slid off the window sill, holding onto the edge of it with one hand. Unsteadily she began to move sidewards, careful to keep her head ducked so the man could not see her out the window.

Suddenly, she heard a huge bang as her bedroom door was forced open, and she let out a scream as another bolt of lightning and thunder crack reverberated around her, louder than she had ever heard. Feeling a huge sense of dread as her footing slipped, she gave another scream as she fell from the windowsill, sliding down, down, down, until she hit the damp grass with a thud, and everything faded into darkness.

**A/N: So, did you like it? If so, tell me why! If not, tell me why! **

**-Evie**


	2. The First Dinner

Christine's entire body ached with pain. She tried to shift her position, but she felt a dull throbbing feeling whenever she moved, and a sharp stabbing in her side, so she sunk back into the bed, wincing in pain.

Had it all been a dream? A horrible, horrible dream? Was that man with the haunting eyes simply a manifestation of her tired, imaginative mind?

Somehow she knew that it wasn't. It had been far too real.

Fluttering her eyes open, adjusting her eyes to the dank light of wherever she was, she took in her surroundings, confirming her suspicions. She wasn't in the townhouse; she could tell by the smell and the feel of the place, but as to her location she wasn't sure. It was too dark to see anything at all.

She was tucked up in a king sized bed beneath a luxurious cream doona with gold trimmings, apparently made from the finest silk. She raised her head slightly from the incredibly soft pillows to realise that she was in a four poster, and attempted to sit up to push the fine rose, gold and cream silk gauze curtains away. Wincing in pain, she pushed past the piles of ornate pillows and sheets to crawl to the side of the bed. Her body was aching horribly, but her fear was increasing by the second. She needed to get out.

Whimpering with the sharp ache overtaking her whole body, she shakily pulled across the curtains to reveal her surroundings. She stifled her own cry and immediately clutched her side, where it felt like someone had thrust a knife between her ribs. Wincing through the pain, she peered out of the curtains. She was in a very large, very grand bedroom. For a moment she forgot her fear as she gazed around her in wonder.

It was stunning. Decorated beautifully in a rococo grandeur as if it had come straight from Versailles itself, it screamed taste and money. The ceiling, walls and floor were made of highly polished quartz marble, very large, ornate and comfortable looking rugs covering the majority of the floor, with traditional furniture such as a writing desk, a huge vanity and chest of draws, and several small tables and chairs. The walls were lined with shelves, holding books or gorgeous collections of beautiful porcelain dolls, all staring at her with colourful, glassy eyes. There were several doors in the bedroom, and she could only guess where they led to.

Feeling the tingling sense of fear and pain dawn on her once more, Christine frantically searched for a way out of the room. Could she just walk out of the doors? Where was her ballet bag? Where _was_ she? Was she even in Paris? Had she left France? Now fully sitting up, she tried to edge off the bed, but it was proving difficult. Her body was still screaming in pain, but her fear allowed her to ignore it, her instinct to survive was stronger than the ache she felt.

She screamed as one of the several doors in the room opened, and an unfamiliar woman walked into the room. Eyes wide in terror, Christine attempted to accelerate her attempt to leave the bed, but it was so far to the floor, and she was now trembling once again in fear.

"Mademoiselle Daaé! You must stay in bed!" the woman exclaimed upon realising Christine's intent. She rushed towards the girl, and with calm, steadying hands, pushed her back into the bed. Christine bit her lip in agony as the stabbing sensation in her side began again.

"I want to go home!" she cried angrily, struggling against the woman in vain. Her body was too weary and damaged to fight, but that didn't stop her from attempting.

"Now mademoiselle, I know you might be a little confused, but everything shall be just _fine_," the woman assured her cheerfully. Christine met her kind eyes with her own. She could see no deceit in the woman's face, but she was still trapped in a strange place by a man she had never met before.

"P – please, m – my friend, Raoul, h – he has m – money, he'll pay y – your ransom," she stammered tearfully, as the woman pulled the covers over her body with busy hands.

"Ransom?" chuckled the woman, shaking her head. "You have it all wrong, mademoiselle Daaé! You're not a _hostage_, there's no ransom out for you," she informed her kindly. Christine swallowed, her fear not fading, her confusion rising.

"Raoul w - will be able to give you some m – money," she continued, feeling her bottom lip tremble.

"Just relax, young lady. The Master has arranged for a doctor to come see you; he's just in the hallway. Now that you're awake, I'll send him in," she announced. Calling out something in a tongue that Christine didn't understand, the woman bustled to the door as an aged man came in.

"Please help me! I – I've been kidnapped, w – where am I?" she cried fearfully to the cheerful looking man as he approached.

"Me speak no Français, mademoiselle," the man informed her, seeming remarkably chipper. Christine couldn't recognise his accent, but she felt her body sink back into the bed in disappointment. The masked man had obviously planned it all – the doctor would see to her injuries, but wouldn't be able to understand a word of what she was saying.

"Where am I?" she questioned in German. The man blinked in surprise.

"Me speak no Français," he repeated. Giving a grumble of anger, she tried again in English. He replied with the same statement. Angered, she searched her memory for her rusty Italian. She gave up when he only stared at her quizzically.

"What language does he speak?" she questioned the woman, as the doctor placed his bag on the bedside table, and pulled a chair up to the side of her bed.

"Flemish. He's taking his vacation in town," she informed her, pulling open the lacy curtains from the windows, light streaming into the bedroom.

"Tell him that I'm a prisoner here, and he needs to call the police!" Christine pleaded. The woman tutted and shook her head as she busied herself with the windows.

"Now, now mademoiselle, that's a very sorry attitude you have there!" she commented dismissively. Christine felt her eyes sting with tears as she realised that there was no way she was getting out at the moment.

She cried through her examination by the doctor, not just from pain, but from fear. What was going to happen to her? Was she going to be killed by the madman that had turned up on the doorstep of her employer's home?

With a small, stale laugh that sounded more like a sob, she realised that Carlotta wouldn't go looking for her. She'd complain, she'd be frustrated, but she wouldn't think to call the police, only the agency for a replacement.

"Oh my poor little dear, are you in terrible pain?" the woman cooed to her, once she had opened the windows to allow the cool morning air into the room. Christine sniffled as the doctor inspected her bruising. "Oh, that looks so horrible! I'll have to ask the doctor to write you a prescription for some painkillers so you can sleep," she murmured pitifully.

"I want to go home. Please, send me back to Switzerland, I don't care. I just want to go home," she pleaded quietly.

"Sorry, deary, but that's the Master's decision," the woman sighed, patting her dark curls from her pale, bruised face. Christine winced slightly with the contact, but the woman was warm and comforting all the same. "Oh! My name is Madame Sorelli, by the way, my dear. If you need _anything_ at all, you can call me, or my niece, Jammes. We're here to help you," she said warmly. Christine nodded slowly, crawling into a foetal position as the doctor finished his examination of her body.

She felt more tears trickle from her dark eyes as she listened to him speak to Madame Sorelli. She didn't understand a word he was saying, but it didn't matter. She wished that the fall had killed her. She would rather have died than be taken prisoner by a deranged madman, in a place that she didn't know, being cared for by an obviously delusional woman, her body screaming in pain, fear coursing through her.

What had she to live for? She had no parents, no siblings, no family at all. She barely knew anyone in Paris, only the family she worked for and… Raoul…

She let out another moan of misery as she thought of him. Raoul, Raoul, oh beautiful Raoul! Would he even notice that she was gone? Would he just find another girl to befriend? Would he look for her, or think that she had just run away, like he had been urging her to do?

He would just assume that she had finally gotten tired of Carlotta and returned to her home country without a moment's notice. He would be hurt that she hadn't said goodbye, but he wouldn't look for her. Oh, what a horrible position she was in! To die at barely seventeen years of age!

"Now mademoiselle Daaé, no need to cry. The doctor said that apart from some rather serious bruising and a few fractured ribs, you should be as right as rain in a few days," Madame Sorelli announced cheerfully, stepping towards the bed as the doctor excused himself. "The good doctor said that he'd write out a prescription for some sleeping pills, but you just need a bit of rest and you'll be fine," she assured her, with a little pat on the head. Christine only continued to weep as the woman departed the room, leaving her alone.

Seventeen! And only a week or so ago she had been just sixteen… such a young age to die.

But, she supposed, at least she would be able to see her father again.

Whispering a quiet prayer, she begged whoever was residing up in the heavens to help her, to do _anything_, to send her the angel that she had been promised.

She very much doubted that there would be any getting out without one.

* * *

Christine stayed in the same bed for three days, only getting up to go to the bathroom and bathe with the assistance of Madame Sorelli.

From what little she had seen of wherever she was, she could tell that it was very grand. The bathroom was beautiful, with gleaming white tiles, a huge mirror, a beautiful big clawed foot bath and a long waterfall shower.

But she cared little for the grandeur of her prison, because no matter how beautiful her rooms were, she was _still _in a cage.

She saw only Madame Sorelli for those three days as she brought in her meals. Christine felt too sick with fear to eat, constantly asking questions and begging for her freedom, but the woman didn't seem to be listening to her at all. She was too well-trained for Christine's liking. Was she to end up like that too? A servant? Was this just a really strange training process that she had to go through?

"Today Mademoiselle Christine, you shall have dinner with the master, now that you're getting better," Madame Sorelli announced in her thick French-Belgium accent at lunchtime on the third day.

Christine trembled in fear but also in apprehension with the new information. She was finally going to see her kidnapper, and whatever sick sadistic reason he had taken her for was going to be revealed!

"Hmm. The Master won't like how skinny you've gotten, or how pale!" Madame Sorelli commented, taking in her rapidly diminishing appearance. Christine supposed that she had lost half her body weight from simply crying night and day. She was too sad to even sing herself to sleep, all she did was just slumber, and try to linger in her dreams where she wasn't a prisoner of a madman.

"Thank you, Madame Sorelli," she murmured quietly when the women put down the tray bearing some kind of tomato soup, a few rolls of crusty bread on the side of the bowl, a pot of hot tea next to it.

"Now try to eat all of that, young lady! I won't see you wither away to nothing!" she said sternly, but her eyes were softened with her usual kindness. Christine nodded, and sat up. The women left, satisfied that she was going to make an effort to eat, but the moment she had gone, Christine pushed aside the soup, and rose unsteadily to her feet. She winced and held a hand to her side, as if it would stop the pain of her cracked ribs.

In her moments of freedom, she had taken to inspecting her room for means of escape. She had already determined that wherever she was, it was by the sea and near some kind of forest. The glimpse of blue sky over the glistening ocean was taunting her with its beauty.

But no matter how appealing the sight of the outside world was, Christine knew that there was no escaping through those windows. Beneath them was nothing but wall, no vines, no trees, and she was far too high up to risk jumping. Sighing, she moved past them to the bathroom. The windows there were useless too, and there was no phone or computer there for her to contact anyone with.

Stepping out of the bathroom, she tried the door to her walk-in wardrobe. She knew that there were no windows in there, only clothes and shoes that looked far too beautiful to have been picked out by any madman.

There were three doors left in the room, and two of them were always locked. One was the door that Madame Sorelli used to enter her room from the hallway, but she had no idea where the other locked one led to. Occasionally, when she was very, _very_ quiet, she could hear the faintest hints of noise coming from behind the heavy door, but she had never been able to discern what it was. The last door led to a very pretty sort of parlour for her use. It had a few comfortable chairs, plenty of books and another writing table by the fireplace. She felt as if she were living in Versailles.

Sighing, she gave in to what she had already discovered two days ago. There was no escape from that room. She was trapped in it until 'the Master' allowed her to be free.

It was starting to frighten her, really. It seemed so… tailored to her tastes. Had the circumstances been different, she would have loved the rooms and books and dolls and clothes, but she was too sick with fear to enjoy any of it. She was quite certain that her kidnapper had been paying very detailed attention to her every move and action. Everything was exactly to her tastes. Had he been stalking her before he finally decided to kidnap her? And _why_ had he done it? She had no family, not much money, and all of it was still sitting in her old ballet bag on the bedside table. She had _nothing_, really.

The rest of the afternoon was spent scribbling 'RESCUE ME' notes on some of the writing paper in the desk in her room, and shoving it into little bottles of bathroom products, before launching them out the window to the world outside, although she knew it was fruitless. She hadn't seen anyone walking along the beach or swimming in the ocean during her three days at the grand house, so she very much doubted that anyone would find them before she was killed.

She was trembling with fear later that day as Madame Sorelli helped her change for dinner. Apparently the 'Master' had requested that she wear something 'nice', so she found herself being practically forced into a simple, pure white frock that probably cost more than her monthly wage, but the tight sleaves felt itchy against her wrists. She had no desire to make an effort with her appearance, or to even brush her hair, because in her eyes, this man wasn't someone she wanted to impress, but Madame Sorelli insisted on combing her long dark tresses for her, crooning about her lovely hair.

"Where am I, Madame Sorelli?" Christine questioned for what felt like the millionth time as the woman pinched her pale cheeks to bring some colour into them.

"By the sea, mademoiselle Christine," she answered cheerfully. Christine sighed, knowing it was the only response she was going to get. She glanced in the mirror, no longer recognising her reflection.

Gone was any warmth from her skin, she was now paler than she had ever been before, dark shadows rested beneath her eyes, she had lost a bit of weight already and what wasn't covered by the material of the dress was bruised and tender. She anxiously pulled at the long, tight sleaves of the dress, wishing that it covered more skin. She didn't feel comfortable letting that madman see any bit of her – what if he wanted to rape her before he murdered her? No, she couldn't risk it.

"Now the Master is rather proper. Try not to speak when he is," Madame Sorelli instructed, but Christine wasn't listening as the woman pulled her hair up into a pretty sort of bun, a few tendrils falling around her neck and shoulders. She chewed her full lips, making their natural dark pink turn redder.

"Please, just tell him that I want to go home!" Christine begged tearfully, as Madame Sorelli announced that it was time to go downstairs. She sighed, and shook her head.

"The Master is not a man that you would want to deny, Christine," she murmured simply, taking her by the hand, and leading her out of the room.

The hallway was long and just as ornately decorated as her bedroom. The walls were painted burgundy, with gorgeous gothic paintings adorning them, beautiful faces peering back at her. She was led through the hallway with Madame Sorelli's assistance to a huge marble grand staircase with gleaming banisters and perfect, god-like forms adorning them. Christine felt about two inches tall as she walked down the dark, rich carpet over the stairs to the marbled chess-board floor, her simple ballet flats tapping quietly on the gleaming surface. She was quite certain that she was in a palace as she was led to another hallway, and then, to a huge dining room, a long wooden table taking up the majority of the room.

She swallowed nervously, aware that she was still crying when she felt Madame Sorelli leave her side. At the head of the table, sitting in a large leather chair, was the masked man. He looked just as handsome as he had before, but instead of wearing a black scarf and trench coat, he had a scarlet cravat around his neck and a black waistcoat embroided with gold thread in some sort of Oriental design. He looked incredibly intimidating, staring across the table at her, the candlelight reflecting off his porcelain mask.

Meeting his pale eyes with her own teary ones, she felt unable to look away. Something in those burning eyes held her gaze, they seemed so strange, and yet so… familiar.

"Christine," he greeted in his velvety voice, almost startling her with the sound. She sniffled quietly.

"I – I don't have much m – money, a – and I don't have a – any family, b – but my f – friend, R – Raoul, he – he may b – be able to p – pay your r – ransom," she practically whimpered, finally tearing her eyes away from her captor's to stare at the floor.

"Please sit down Christine," the man requested. She shook her head in response. He gave a short, annoyed sigh. "First of all, I know you have no money, and I know you have no family. I also know about your 'friend' Raoul – and I never wish for his name to be mentioned in my house again. Do you understand?" he questioned sharply. Christine trembled with fear from his command. She nodded, still not raising her eyes. "There is no ransom, and this isn't a kidnapping. I have no desire to cause you harm. I didn't mean for you to fall from the roof at Madame Carlotta's home. I apologise for any pain you went through, and I hope that you're feeling better," he continued sincerely.

Christine didn't know how to respond. _Yes_, her body felt better, but her mind? Her soul? How could she _possibly_ be feeling better after what she was going through?

"Please, l – let me go. I – I have nothing, I'm n – no one special, I – I just want to leave," she begged him tearfully. "I don't w – want to die, I – I haven't lived m – my life yet," she explained, pleading for release. She hazarded a glance at his face, and was startled to find pity there.

"I'm sorry I frightened you. Please, sit down. Eat," he requested, gesturing to the seat beside him. Christine shook her head. She hadn't eaten a thing in days because she was so terrified that it would be poisoned. "Christine, you'll make yourself sick if you don't eat," he said sternly, but she continued to shake her head in defiance. "Do you want me to force feed you? You've been here three days and you haven't eaten a thing. That won't help you recover from your fall. I have no desire to see you ill," he continued, his agitation growing.

Christine felt a burst of anger surge in her chest. Was he toying with her? What kind of kidnapper didn't want to see his hostage sick?

"Let me go home!" she cried suddenly, startling the man. He narrowed his gaze, surveying her calmly.

"No."

"I hate you! Why are you doing this to me? What did I do to you?" she spat furiously, her anger overriding her fear. "I _hate_ you! Let me _go_!" she demanded, turning around to face the large, ornate wooden doors of the dining room. She hobbled to them and pulled and pushed at the handles, desperately trying to open them, but it was in vain.

"You'll only hurt yourself," he reminded her calmly, but she was beyond caring. She kicked the door in anger, but it did nothing but aggravate the pain in her sides. She banged at it furiously, calling out loudly for someone to free her, but she knew that no one would.

"Let me _go_! Let me _go! _I _hate_ you, you monster!" she screamed angrily, continuing to thrash and fight against the heavy wooden door.

She hadn't heard him get up, but she certainly felt his grip on her arms, causing her to cease her resistance. He was far stronger than her, and that simple action was enough to restrict her completely, added with her weary, still aching body.

"I didn't do _anything_ to you! I don't even know who you _are_!" she cried angrily, fighting against his grip. His warm, strong arms pulled her to his broad chest, and she was unable to struggle any more, simply fidget in vain.

"I'm crushed, Christine. You really don't remember me?" he whispered quietly in her ear. Her whole body gave a violet tremor at the feel of his warm breath on her ear, and the sound of his deep, strong voice reverberating in every crevice of her body. He slowly ran a hand up and down the length of her arm, calming her almost instantly. Her struggles ceased, and she grew still in his hands.

"Of course I do. You kidnapped me three days ago," she muttered, finally recalling her ability to speak. He chuckled deeply, sending another shiver down her spine as he played with the white lace on the end of her sleeve.

"No, Christine. A long time ago. You were much younger then. You used to sing for me," he murmured softly. She couldn't help but shudder with the sound and feel of his voice, the lyrical, musical quality of his tones.

"I – I don't sing now," she managed to get out brokenly.

"But you will."

"_No_. I haven't sung since – no. I'll never do it again," she insisted, trying to block out the feel of his body surrounding hers. She jerked suddenly out of his grip, staring with determination at the floor.

"You will, Christine. You will sing for me again," he stated calmly, stepping away from her. "Sit, Christine. This food is not poisoned. Do you really think that I would have kept you alive for three days, only to kill you for no reason?" he questioned simply, walking back to his chair. Christine thought on what he had said, and couldn't find any reason for him to try to poison her, but still…

"I'm not hungry," she lied defiantly, crossing her arms against her chest. "I want to leave. Take me back to Paris," she demanded. He gave a small chuckle.

"No. Now come sit over here, you must be starving," he instructed her, sitting down at his own place. Carefully, Christine edged towards him, not breaking eye contact in case he made a sudden, unexpected move to kill her. She slowly sat down, frowning.

"Why me?" she questioned him immediately.

"I have my reasons," he answered rather stiffly, topping up his glass of red wine from a dark bottle. "Would you care for some?" he questioned her. Her frown grew.

"It's poisoned."

"No, I can assure you, it's not," he replied, sipping his own glass to show her. She still shook her head.

"I don't trust you," she said coolly, staring at the plate before her. It was laden with beef and seasoned roasted vegetables, smothered in gravy, crusty bread an assortment of olive oils and butters for her to dip it in. It looked delicious, but she didn't trust him.

"It's not poisoned," he assured her, noting her indecision. Sighing with frustration when she didn't react, he leant forwards, and took a piece of roast pumpkin from her plate, and popped it into his mouth, holding his hands up in surrender. "See? I'm alive," he declared.

"Why should I believe you?" she questioned warily. He growled in annoyance.

"Really, Christine, I think I preferred you when you were eleven," he murmured with irritation. She raised an eyebrow questioningly. "Just eat. I won't have you fainting in hunger," he snapped.

Chewing her lip in indecision, Christine finally gave into the gnawing of her stomach and picked up her silver fork. Taking her first bite, she gave a small moan of appreciation. It was _delicious_, and she was so very hungry.

The man chuckled as she continued to practically shovel food into her mouth.

"If you make that sound at every meal, I'll make sure that the cook serves roast beef every day," he commented teasingly. Scowling at him, she put down her fork, and swallowed her mouthful.

"Who are you?" she questioned him directly. He smiled.

"Ah. I was wondering how long it would take you to get to the hard questions," he murmured, sipping his wine slowly. "My name is Erik. But I can only presume that you have further questions concerning my identity – so I'll save you the time now. My name is Erik, and there is little else to know about me," he stated simply. She frowned.

"Do you have a last name, Erik?" she questioned coolly.

"Not to my knowledge, but I go by Danté when one is necessary."

"I suppose you enjoy Italian poetry, then?" she questioned him pointedly, raising one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. He chuckled.

"Either that, or simply infernos, my dear," he murmured appreciatively. "I was given no name. I chose Erik. That's all there is to know," he said simply.

"Why Erik?" she questioned with a slight frown. He gave a small, bored huff.

"I haven't time to explain contrapuntal transformations. There is a very good reason as to why I picked that name, but I will save the story for another time. There is nothing more to know," he replied shortly. Christine hid back a tremble with the order.

"Where am I?" she asked, hiding her discomfort. His smile flickered slightly.

"I can't tell you that," he said simply.

"Are we still in France?" she questioned. He said nothing. "Europe?" she continued.

"We're in the same hemisphere. That's all I'm going to tell you," he said simply, his pale eyes surveying her over the candlelight.

"Have you been stalking me?" she asked him angrily.

"I've been keeping an eye on you," he admitted slowly, not meeting her eyes. She felt the anger return to her chest.

"_Why_? How long?" she demanded to know. He sent her a silencing glare.

"I've known you since you were very small, Christine. That's all you need to know," he snapped.

"You know what kind of shampoo I like to use! My favourite kinds of clothing! My _bra_ size!" she stated angrily. Once again, he did not meet her eyes, only sipped his wine.

"Eat. You must be hungry," he replied simply, after clearing his throat. Angrily, Christine stabbed a piece of red capsicum. She chewed on it slowly, before taking a mouthful of water, forgetting to make Erik show her it wasn't poisoned. Confident that she wasn't choking on it, she took another mouthful.

"When can I go home?" she questioned him finally, not raising her eyes from her glass as she watched the flickering candlelight reflected in its burning beauty.

"I'd like for you to think of here as your home," he replied after a short pause. She scowled, and glanced up at him, his pale eyes once more burning into hers.

"This isn't my home," she practically spat.

"You have nowhere else, Christine. You live with a family of people that you clearly despise, your childhood home was sold and the funds put in a trust that you won't be able to access until you marry, and you know full well that if you are to return to Switzerland, you'll be placed in a foster house or orphanage," he replied calmly. An idea dawned on her, her eyes widening in anger.

"You want to force me to marry you so you get my father's money!" she cried in horror.

"I want to do no such thing," he snapped in anger, sounding alarmed that she would even make such a suggestion. "Do you _really_ think that I need the money, Christine?" he questioned simply, indicating the grandeur she was surrounded by. She frowned slightly.

"How did you get all the money to pay for this? What do you do?" she questioned curiously.

"Christine, there are some questions you do not wish to know the answers to," he snapped. Christine felt herself wince in fear, and clearly he noted it too, as he sighed, as if to calm himself. "I'm – I'm an artist," he answered simply.

"What _kind_ of artist are you?" she continued to probe.

"A number of kinds. I'm an architect, a designer, a sculptor, a painter, an engineer, a composer and a magician, I have no desire to brag, but I can do most things," he informed her carefully. "This house and everything in it was paid for with the funds I received for my first major work," he added. Christine's eyes widened slightly.

"Are you rich, or something?" she questioned incredulously, but instantly felt stupid for asking such a question. He clearly was.

"Depends on your perception of rich," he chuckled, leaning back in his chair comfortably.

"I work every day from about six in the morning till eleven at night. I get paid practically nothing. My perception of 'rich' is quite broad," she retorted coolly. He smiled in amusement.

"I admire your determination. But I always wondered why you never just… left Carlotta and Piangi," he commented. She felt herself shrug.

"It's very difficult to find work these days. I can't afford to go to University yet, and I only just finished school… I need to be working, or else I'll be sent back to Switzerland, and I _will_ be put in a home," she murmured simply. "I can't stay here, wherever _here_ is. I need to be working, or else Immigration will send me back," she informed him. He nodded.

"I know."

"So… when do I get to go back to Paris?" she questioned once again. He sighed.

"Christine, please ask me a different question. Soon you'll have no desire to return to Paris. You need to be patient and trust that what I've done is what's best," he stated simply. She scowled.

"How do you know that? I just want to go back to Paris and forget all of this – forget _you_!" she cried angrily. He frowned slightly, as if that remark had actually hurt him.

"Patience, Christine," he murmured quietly, taking another mouthful of wine. Christine pushed her food around her plate, but she found that she was no longer hungry. "I can see that three days of starvation has shrunken your stomach. Eat as much as you can now, and you should be feeling better over the next few days," he commented, placing his glass on the tabletop.

"What are you going to do to me?" she questioned softly. He stared at her in surprise, blinking in shock.

"I'm not the kind of man to force a young woman to bed me, Christine, if that's what you were worried about," he informed her with slight stiffness.

"But you _are_ the kind of man to kidnap a young woman in the middle of the night and hide her away in the middle of nowhere?" she questioned angrily. His eyes shone with fury.

"I have no desire to take anything from you that you have no intention of giving, Christine, and your virtue is one of those things," he snapped. "In time you will come to realise that what I have done for you is what's best. I don't do this for my own selfishness, or to cause you misery. I take my leave of you," he announced, standing up, and leaving the table. He stormed from the dining room in anger, closing the door behind him with a large _bang_.

Christine allowed more tears to flow from her darkened eyes.

What was she going to do?

**A/N: Thank you all for the pleasant reviews I've been getting for this story so far, I should be updating at least once a week, possibly more, it depends on how I'm going for time. Please, read and review, I'd love to know what you think!**

**-Evie**


	3. The Tantrum

"Good morning, Mademoiselle Daaé!" Madame Sorelli greeted cheerfully, striding into the room at about eight in the morning, pulling the curtains open, light streaming through the window. Christine moaned slightly as she rolled over on the large ornate bed, sheets tangling around her lithe frame. She prayed quietly that when she opened her eyes, it would all be a dream, that she would be in her bedroom in Switzerland, her father playing the violin in the next room, her mother cooking breakfast downstairs.

But she knew it wasn't so, even before she opened her eyes.

"I'm going to run you a bath before breakfast; do you require any assistance dressing?" Madame Sorelli enquired politely, crossing the apartment to the ensuite as Christine sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"I can dress myself," she found herself murmuring, crawling across the surface of the bed to pull open the lacy curtains, wincing as the bright daylight struck her eyes. She rubbed her side as she waited for her eyes to adjust to the light. The stabbing pain had been reduced to a sort of aching that was just about bearable.

"The master usually has his breakfast much earlier, but he didn't want to wake you this morning," Madame Sorelli announced, stepping out of the en suite, the sound of running water filling the room.

"C – can I call my friend? To tell him I'm alive?" Christine questioned the woman softly. A momentary expression of pity passed through her eyes, before it disappeared.

"I'm afraid not. The master has forbidden contact with the outside world, it's… easier this way," she replied, before fixing her smile back onto her lips. "Do you need anything else, Mademoiselle Daaé?" she questioned kindly. Christine shook her head, staring at her feet in disbelief.

"No, I…" she murmured, unable to find words. She had nothing really to say.

"Alright then, I'll let you bathe. Come down for breakfast when you're ready," she finished, picking up Christine's dress from the night before off the back of a chair and folding it over her arm, before slipping out of the bedroom in silence.

Christine gave a small, choked sob as she regarded the bedroom. There was no escape. She had come to that realisation the night before, but it had been a nibbling, unpleasant little suspicion in the back of her mind for the past three days. Sliding off the bed, she stepped into the bathroom, which was slowly filling with warm steam, rising from the hot bathwater in tight curls. The water did little to calm her; its warmth was just an illusion.

Running her hands delicately over the many beautiful items of clothing, Christine wondered if anyone but Madame Sorelli and her kidnapper would see her in them. Raoul would love to see her wear some of the nicer pieces; he was always trying to convince her to accept his offers to let him buy her pretty dresses and jewellery.

Her heart wrenched uncomfortably at the thought of Raoul, so she instead dressed in silence, pulling on a large, chunky grey sweater that went down to her knees, and a pair of dark blue jeans. She didn't want an inch of her skin to be uncovered around those burning colourless eyes.

'_What the hell do I do now?_' she thought to herself as she stood barefoot in the middle of the room, tugging on her too-long sleaves. Her stomach rumbled loudly. She cringed at the thought of going downstairs, but Madame Sorelli hadn't locked the door, and she might be able to escape!

Snatching up her old ballet bag, she rushed into the hall, and began looking around wildly. She dashed down the huge grand staircase into the marbled chess-board floor, looking anxiously from door to door. Where was the way out? She stared up at the huge arched ceiling. The moulding was beautiful, and the fresco gorgeous, the thought briefly, but it was the giant glass windows that caught her attention. She felt a pout threaten her lips. She would never be able to reach it, so turned her gaze back to earth miserably.

The long red velvet carpet leading over the staircase went straight over the floor in a direct line to a pair of reasonably large dark mahogany doors, with huge golden knobs, impressions of angels upon their highly polished surface. She rushed towards them and started to rattle, but they were locked.

"Dammit!" she exclaimed angrily, stepping back, and scanning the wall. There was a glass panel above the doors!

It took her all of two seconds to scamper across the large, gleaming floor to fetch a small chaise ottoman beneath one of the many huge Renaissance paintings littering the room. She dragged it as quietly as she could as to not raise alarm over to the doors, and immediately stood upon it, stretching out as high as her tiny ballet-body would let her. Clutching onto the wooden ledge, she was just able to see out the glass panels. It was an entrance hall, about twice the size of her bedroom. It was decorated in much the same manner as the giant ballroom, but the main point of focus was the two huge doors which surely led outside!

She jumped from the ottoman immediately, and looked around wildly, before her eyes fell on something useful. Eagerly she dashed towards one of the many heavy suits of armour littering the room, almost able to taste the freedom on her lips. The sword would be perfect! She could use it to break open the doors and she would certainly be released from her prison! After all, they needed fresh milk to make her tea, so they couldn't be that far from a town, unless the masked man had his own cow… she certainly hoped not.

She winced as she pulled the sword from the suit of armour's hand. It was _incredibly_ heavy! How could _anyone_ even hold one, let alone do all those funny little moves with them! But, she reminded herself, she would only need it for a minute. She tried not to squeal with excitement as she realised how close to freedom she was. Turning around quickly, she began her dash back to the door.

Unfortunately, the combination of no shoes, a highly polished floor, and a very heavy object sent her immediately to the ground, sliding across the surface of the floor with a scream as the tip of the sword just missed colliding with the side of her head.

"I'm quite impressed, Christine. For someone so small, you've certainly made quite a big effort to get out of here," the familiar, deep rumbling of her captor sounded. Suddenly all her hope for escape disappeared, her heart sinking back down into its miserable black cavern.

"I'm leaving, monsieur, and you can't stop me!" she cried angrily, clumsily getting up with as much speed as she could. She held the sword out before her, leaning forwards slightly with the weight of it, but she wasn't prepared to go down without a fight.

"Oh, believe me Christine, I won't stop you," he assured her, trying to fight the grin on his irritatingly handsome face. He looked very dashing, if Christine were to be honest with herself, dressed once more in all black, both tie and cravat abandoned. He looked slightly more… casual, but he would still be at home in a formal business meeting or cocktail party.

"Good. I'm leaving now, and you can either open those doors for me, or I'll destroy them," she threatened, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Have you forgotten your shoes?" he questioned teasingly, his pale eyes twinkling. She winced at the realisation that she must look like a complete and total idiot.

"_No_," she snapped. "It's just… I have my ballet slippers in my bag, but you didn't think to fetch a pair of _my_ shoes as you kidnapped me, and I didn't want to leave here in a pair that you had probably stolen for me," she added coolly, making up a rather feeble excuse on the spot.

"Hmm. And why are you wearing the clothes then, that I _purchased_ for you?" he questioned simply, crossing his arms against his chest, raising his uncovered eyebrow.

"I – I couldn't find mine," she muttered weakly. "And I didn't want to leave here naked. It would be stupid," she defended herself, her voice growing slightly stronger.

"Oh, of course, I perfectly comprehend your logic now," he replied, doing a poor job of hiding his smirk.

"Are you going to open that door or not?" she questioned angrily.

"Well, why don't I make you a deal, Christine?" he offered. She shifted nervously.

"What kind of deal?" she asked coldly.

"A duel. If you win, you can take whatever clothing, shoes, food, money, vehicles, _anything_ from this house that you desire, and just leave. I won't come after you, I won't stop you, you'll never hear from me again," he stated calmly. Christine blinked in surprise.

"You mean it? You'll just let me go?" she questioned warily, not lowering her sword, despite the fact that her arms felt like they were going to fall off. "And what do you get if I lose?" she asked, after he had nodded.

"Ah. If you lose, you have to come have breakfast with me, and agree that you will join me for each meal every day, and never attempt to run away again," he said calmly. Christine felt her eyes narrow of their own accord.

"_If_ I lose, which I won't, I'll eat with you. But you can't stop me from leaving, monsieur," she snapped coldly. He chuckled.

"Alright, you can try to run away again, you won't be able to, but I thought I would save you the energy," he replied, as if amused by her anger. "So I'll change the deal. If I win, you eat every meal with me, and address me as 'Erik'," he suggested.

"Fine. Whatever. There's no point anyway, because I'm not going to lose," she snapped. "I have too much at stake. I won't let you take my freedom for me," she swore angrily. Erik gave another chuckle, and wandered over to a second suit of armour, drawing the sword from its grasp.

"Alright, you can have the first strike," he said graciously, raising the sword up vertically to sit before his head, and then lowering it in a sweeping motion to his side, giving her a short bow.

"You'll regret your kindness!" she practically growled, clutching her sword tightly. Unsure of what to do, she moved forward as quickly as she could, and jabbed the sword in the direction of his heart. He blocked her immediately. Cursing beneath her breath, she raised her sword again, and attempted to slash the side of his waist, but he only effortlessly blocked her once again.

"You're too slow, Christine, and that sword is clearly too heavy for you," Erik informed her kindly.

"I don't care! I don't _care_!" she cried, desperately trying to get in another shot, but Erik met her sword with a clang, and slid it down the length, until she had to pull her hand away, her wrist pounding, the sword abandoned on the ground. She grabbed for it instantly, and was about to jump up, when she felt the cold weight of his weapon lying against her back. A shiver of fear ran down her spine, overpowering the now-throbbing pain in her side.

"Were this a proper duel, Christine, I would have killed you before you had even raised your sword to strike me," she heard him murmur. "I have no desire for you to hurt yourself. You may leave the sword on the ground, you know full well that I am much stronger than you," he said calmly.

Christine wheeled around, the sword raised in her arms with a desperate cry. He blocked her shot, but she only went for another as quickly as she could.

"You took me –" _clang_ "– away from –" _clang_ "– Paris, it was –" _clang_ "– all I had –" _clang_ "– _left_!" she cried angrily, taking shot after shot only for his sword to meet hers the moment she raised it. With one flick of his wrist, he sent hers flying from her grip, sliding across the marbled floor. She fell back to the ground, trying not to cry as he held his sword up to her heart.

"No, Christine," he murmured. "You have something left. Something that you clearly haven't taken into account," he said calmly, lowering his sword, and reaching down to pull her up. She reluctantly accepted his hand, and rose to her feet.

"What's that?" she questioned snappishly, brushing down her jumper.

"Come. It's time for breakfast," he announced, tossing his sword aside, and placing his hand delicately on the crook of her elbow. She sighed, and gave a slight sniffle.

Escape would have to wait for another day.

"We're in a different room," she stated suddenly, the moment they stepped through the doorway off the hall. It was a smaller room than the one they dined in the night before, with large open windows allowing for the late spring breeze to float through them, wispy white curtains fluttering delicately.

"Yes, this is the breakfast room. I know how intimidating that long table can be, so I felt you might prefer this room," he stated simply.

Christine looked around in wonder. It was… well, _very_ nice. It had a sort of Indian influence; the walls, floor and ceiling were made of a white stone, possibly marble, with archways the shape of a smooth ice cream cone… a large wooden table with gorgeous engravings of elephants upon its surface sat in the middle, laden with all sorts of breakfast items.

"My bedroom is a cross between French and English design. The ballroom and entrance is in Italian. The dining room was from the North. This is a very strange house," she found herself murmuring. Erik chuckled.

"Yes, I like to decorate my home in various styles from all the places I've visited. I have an Egyptian waters room, a Persian sitting room, the library is English, a Japanese meditation room, I consider myself quite multicultural," he informed her with a small grin. Christine frowned as he led her to a seat. He had a peculiar, but very attractive accent that she couldn't put her finger on.

"So what country are you from then?" she questioned warily. He gave another grin.

"I have no country. I don't know where I was born, and I've never wanted to know," he informed her simply. "Now what shall you have for breakfast? You didn't eat much last night, you must be starved," he said, briskly changing the subject as he took a seat across from hers.

"I don't normally eat breakfast," she murmured. It was true, her morning were usually consumed with the desperate attempt to get Luigi and Angelo fed, dressed and off to school on time. She had no time to feed herself.

"Looking after the two Piangi brats, I presume?" he questioned, pouring himself a cup of tea. He added no milk or sugar, but simply drank it black. Christine almost cringed. She hated black tea.

"They aren't so bad, really," she lied. "I mean, they're a little demanding, and perhaps a bit spoilt… but they aren't brats," she assured him. He met her eyes doubtfully.

"They are not at all pleasant. When they're not screaming for food to put in their fat little faces they're throwing themselves at the ground and kicking up a fuss because they aren't being showered in attention," he said plainly. Christine felt her cheeks flush slightly.

"They're only little. Little children don't understand social conventions," she murmured weakly.

"_Those_ children should understand a good kick in their fat little stomachs," he replied calmly, before he turned to spoon fresh yogurt onto his mixed fruit.

"You should never strike a child," she said crossly, however, she had been forced to resist the urge to kick the little shits several times herself.

"A slap on the hand does no harm, and goes a long way," he replied calmly. "Now I would advise you try the jam. I have a very good cook who makes it herself," he added, glancing over at her empty plate. "And nothing on this table is poisoned, might I add," he threw in, as Christine gave a slightly wary glance around. She shifted uncomfortably, glancing out the open windows. If she could just distract him for a moment…

The sight of the white beach and the softly crashing ocean was like a terrible tease for her. She wanted so desperately to throw herself into those waters and just swim away…

"You would drown, or freeze," Erik said calmly, interrupting her musing. "Now eat. Starvation renders you useless to me," he directed. Christine almost bitterly reached for a warm croissant, wishing that he didn't have such a strange ability to practically read her mind.

However, she did have to agree with him. The croissant with jam was delicious. She tried to hide her delight, but it really was the best pastry she had ever eaten. The smirk on Erik's face, however, revealed that he was aware of her delight. That somehow made the jam taste bitter in her mouth. She didn't want _him_ to know that she liked it.

"I would like to call my friend," she stated calmly, placing the pasty back down on the side of her plate. "He'll be worried about me. I want him to know that I'm still alive," she added, trying to keep her voice firm and steady.

"No," Erik replied simply, taking a piece of toast from the pile served on a silver plate, and buttering it in clipped silence. Christine found herself bristling in frustration. How dare he be so short with her!

"Listen, monsieur –"

"Erik."

"- _fine_, Erik, I don't know why I'm here, and I have a few questions that I would like answered," she announced coolly, unsure of where her courage was springing from. She had always considered herself generally quite weak, not the kind of girl to stand up to her clearly insane kidnapper.

"You may ask me anything, Christine, and I'll be happy to answer you," he replied calmly. "Unless of course, one of your questions is in reference to some kind of escape route. I'm afraid that I cannot help you there," he added, sensing what was about to spring forth from Christine's throat. She slumped in slight disappointment, ignoring his tiny smirk as he turned back to his breakfast, his intense, colourless eyes focused purely on his toast.

"You said that you used to know me when I was a child," she stated after a pause, thinking over all he had said to her the night before. He nodded.

"When you and your family still lived in Switzerland."

"When was this? How old was I?" she questioned sharply. Erik sighed, and looked thoughtful, as if he were attempting to recall precise dates and times.

"I knew your family when they still lived in Paris. I had seen you a few times as a baby, exchanged the usual compliments and congratulations to your parents, but we didn't come into much contact until you were a little older, when you returned to Switzerland. Ten or eleven, I suppose," he informed her factually, before taking a sip of tea. Christine's expression narrowed.

"Then… you would have known my mother, too," she stated slowly. He nodded.

"Yes."

"How did you know my parents?"

"We went back a long way. We were… friends," he replied, frowning slightly with his own terminology. Christine thought over his words.

"Why don't I remember you then?" she questioned accusingly.

"Oh, I can imagine you remember me, but I doubt you recognise me," he answered simply. "I visited your father often over a period of about a year. I frightened you, however, for the most part of that time. It wasn't until you were quite certain I wasn't a figment of your imagination that you began to warm to me," he explained briefly.

"I really don't remember you," Christine admitted, searching her memory. Erik met her with his intense, stormy eyes. She shivered.

"I think you do."

She faltered suddenly, the slightest essence of a memory floating into her consciousness. She frowned as she tried to recall it. She had been in the hallway of her childhood home; she could recognise the rug and the colour of the walls. She could see a tall, dark figure at the end of it, sweeping into her father's study, a flash of white disappearing through the door.

"You would always wear black… and you had a hat that you let me play with," she murmured softly, recalling a black fedora that had served as the sailing ship for many dolls and stuffed animals. A smile flickered over his handsome face.

"And you sung me –"

"- the alphabet song," she found herself interjecting. "And nursery rhymes and lullabies. And songs that I heard on the radio," she practically whispered, her head spinning with memories that were fast returning.

"You sung me everything that you knew," he informed her factually, lowering his cup to rest on the table. Christine found herself frowning as she continued to run the memories over in her mind.

"Why were you always visiting my father?" she questioned in confusion.

"We had known each other for many years. Your father knew he could trust me," he answered simply. Christine's mouth opened to cry out 'with _what_?', but the words never came.

"I was ten, wasn't I?" she questioned suddenly, a thought striking her like lighting. "When you started to come once or twice a week, I was ten years old. You hadn't come before then, you just started turning up when I was ten years old," she stated, her voice growing shaky. She looked around the table wildly, her head reeling with new realisations. "You started coming when he was diagnosed! You _knew_!" she cried angrily. He nodded soberly.

"Yes, Christine, I knew," he confessed.

"Why didn't you _tell_ me?" she questioned with growing agitation, slamming her hands down on the side of the table, her dark eyes alight with anger.

"He asked me to promise not to, Christine, and I _always_ honour my promises," he informed her with slight coolness. "Enough of the past, my dear. How do you like your rooms? Is the apartment to your liking?" he questioned, sensing her high emotions, and changing the subject with a nonchalant tone. Christine swallowed her anger bitterly, and returned to pushing her breakfast around the plate.

"They're all beautiful, but they hardly make a prison cell," she manage to snap.

"You aren't a prisoner," he informed her simply. She sent him an angry glare.

"Then let me go!" she demanded passionately. Erik gave a poorly hidden growl of frustration.

"And what would you return to, Christine? Those bratty children and the world's worst employers?" he questioned angrily. "You can have everything here! You have nice clothes, books, music, I have a beautiful garden and you're only a minute's walk to the ocean, servants ready to wait on you hand and foot – everything you could possibly desire is right here!" he snapped.

"All I've seen is the inside of my cell and teasing glimpses of my freedom!" she argued, slamming her hand on the tabletop, glasses and cutlery rattling with the force of her frustrations.

"When you're properly recovered you will be able to go wherever you please in this house, in the garden, and even onto the beach. You aren't well enough yet," he informed her, his tone clipped and cool before he raised a piece of fruit on a silver spoon to his mouth.

"When do I get to go home?" she questioned him, her tone desperate and pleading. His gaze moved to his plate, and he veiled a scowl.

"Christine, this will be your home from now on," he stated calmly.

"No! I want to go to University! I want to go back to Paris, I want to travel!" she cried angrily.

"When I am confident that you won't run away the moment you're out of my site, we will travel, I can assure you," he promised calmly. "And I can give you all the education you need. You completed school very early for someone your age, you will not be disadvantaged if you take some time to think of your options, and in eighteen months you might have no desire to attend a University," he added simply. Christine scowled.

"You have _no_ right to make my decisions for me!" she cried angrily. Erik calmly and emotionlessly met her intense glare. She felt her heartbeat quicken, but ignored it.

"Christine, you are still unwell, and as a result, for the time being you will stay inside this house," he informed her simply, reaching for his tea. "I will brook no opposition on this matter – when I feel you have recovered, we can discuss this further," he said firmly.

Christine stood up angrily, and picked up her plate. She threw it on the floor as hard as she could, where it shattered into a thousand pieces. Erik didn't even flinch. She snatched up her teacup, and that joined the plate on the floor.

"I _hate_ you!" she cried angrily, reaching for the teapot, and throwing it at the wall behind Erik. He picked up his teacup and sipped it in silence, as if she wasn't even standing there. "I _despise_ you! I hope you burn in hell!" she continued, picking up the dish of butter and allowing it to join the pieces of porcelain surrounding her feet.

"You're awfully immature for a sixteen year old girl, you know," Erik commented calmly.

"I'm _seventeen_!" she snapped angrily. He scoffed.

"Pardon me for my grievous mistake. Go ahead – destroy every last piece of porcelain in this house. I have far too much of it, and no great attachment to cutlery or separation anxiety complex with my dishes," he assured her. That only made her angrier. She picked up his teacup and threw it at him. It bounced harmlessly off his chest, empty of any scolding liquid. "Oh, the pain," he droned sarcastically. "You should have thrown the teapot at me and the cup at the wall, that would have been more effective," he informed her calmly.

"I _loathe_ you," she hissed darkly. He shrugged.

"Oh, I'm quite sure you do. I don't doubt the violence of your passions, Christine," he replied simply. "Now. Have you had enough?" he questioned stately.

"I wish you had left me to die in Paris – that would be better than spending another _second_ with you!" she cried, reaching for his bowl of fruit and yogurt and throwing it at his chest. She turned and began to run the moment that she had let go of the bowl, pieces of porcelain digging into the soles of her feet and twisting in the flesh there. She started to cry in pain as she ran up the stairs and to her bedroom.

She fell to the floor in agony, her feet covered in blood. She lay helplessly on the ground, unable to rise to her aching feet. Blood was pooling around them, and she tried to move so they could stain the precious Persian rug on the floor, but it came to nothing.

"Would you like some help?" Erik's deep, throaty voice came a few minutes later. He had taken off his jacket and vest, and wore only his dark trousers and a white Oxford shirt.

"No! If I'm lucky, I'll have hit an artery and I'll die here!" she cried bitterly, but it came out as a pathetic sob. Her feet hurt so very much…

"Jammes, come here please," Erik called to someone she couldn't see.

"Yes, Master?" a chirpy young redhead questioned attentively, appearing like magic beside him. Her eyes went wide as she took in the form of Christine, lying bleeding on the floor.

"Mademoiselle Daaé is injured. Please fetch some hot towels, tweezers, antiseptic and bandages, then find your Aunt," he directed her instantly. She nodded firmly.

"Yes, of course Master!" she cried, before running back down the hall.

"I won't let you touch me."

"Remind me to ask Jammes to fetch some plates for you to throw at me when she returns," was his only response, as he bent down to pick her up. She struggled in his arms, but he only gripped her tighter. She bit his arm, he cursed, and she fell to the floor, landing on her feet before falling back on her side. She screamed in agony as the shards of porcelain dug themselves deeper into her feet. She hadn't the will to resist as he picked her up again, and carried her into the bathroom.

He set her down on the side of the bath, before moving to turn on the hot water. The water began to pool around her wounded feet, the first touch a sting, but it gradually became a comfort. She was sobbing quietly and without restraint as the water turned crimson.

"I fear my hands are not the ones that you will want for this, Christine," Erik informed her calmly, as Jammes ducked in with the necessary implements, before disappearing once more to find her Aunt. "You see, we need to get those shards out of your feet, and it's going to be very painful," he explained quietly.

"No, please no," Christine moaned in pain. He looked somewhat sympathetic as she pleaded to him. "I don't want you to do it! I don't want you touching my feet!" she cried pitifully.

"In your condition, I feel that perhaps I should give this job to someone else," he conceded. "Madame Sorelli will be able to take the pieces out as gently as possible," he assured her.

"It's going to hurt," she sniffled quietly. He nodded soberly.

"It has to be done, Christine."

"Good Lord in heaven – what has happened?" came the incredulous scream of Madame Sorelli as she stepped into the bathroom.

"Mademoiselle Daaé has hurt herself by throwing a rather impressive tantrum downstairs – you will need to have Jammes clean it up, as well as the blood stains leading from the dining room," he informed her quite calmly. "But before you do that, I believe that we're in need of your delicate hands," he added.

"Oh, poor Mistress – you must be in such pain!" she crooned softly. Christine whimpered, but said nothing. She was feeling rather dizzy, actually, and very warm…

"Please, Madame Sorelli, we have to hurry. Three days of starvation in addition to the bought of pneumonia has made her very weak, and she is loosing a great deal of blood," Erik murmured with concern. The woman nodded and chewed her lip.

Christine found herself being picked up and shifted, her feet resting atop the hot towels. She didn't resist as her back was pressed against Erik's chest, and she sat in his lap, his strong arms wound tightly around her. She was feeling very light headed, and her feet were hurting so. Her head rolled back to rest on the crook on his shoulder, and his hand gently began pushing her hair back from her face. The stroking of his hand was very comforting, very soothing for her pained body.

He began to hum. He had a very melodious hum, a very beautiful hum, it was soft and deep and seemed to wrap around her and soothe her aching feet. She didn't know the song – but it didn't matter. It was so beautiful.

She cried out as Madame Sorelli began her painful task. Erik held her tighter and ran his hand down her arm in a slow, comforting motion.

"It's going to be fine," he assured her softly. She tossed and turned her head against his shoulder, her eyes screwed together tightly.

"_Mon Dieu! Je suis désolé j'ai peiné vous_ !" she cried out in agony. "I am sorry! I am so sorry!" she continued to weep.

"Your God didn't do this to you, Christine," Erik murmured softly, soothing back her hair.

"The girl is in pain, Master! She needs all the prayers she can get!" Madame Sorelli said sternly.

"_Je suis faible, pardonnez-moi, s'il vous plaît!"_ she sobbed.

"Cease your tears, Christine, I am here," Erik whispered into the shell of her ear.

"_Sauve-moi de l'ange noir_!" she begged.

"So I'm the black angel, am I, Christine? Well, that's not the first time I've been called that," he muttered. He gripped her tighter, but she continued to sob and shake for the next fifteen minutes of pain.

"There's only one piece left, Master, but it's large, and very deep," Madame Sorelli murmured softly. He nodded.

"Christine… listen to me, I need you to take my hand," he said loudly, clearly, and calmly. He gripped her hand, and felt her weakly take it. "This is the last one, you've been so very brave, but I need you to squeeze my hand this one last time, alright?" he requested of her. "Go ahead, Madame Sorelli," he murmured, when he felt her tighten her grip.

He had expected her to scream, but she barely made a sound at all. Her voice caught in her throat, her eyes wide with pain. A single tear slipped down her pale cheek.

"Is it done?" he questioned Madame Sorelli softly. She shook her head.

"No, I've barely even touched it," she murmured.

"Christine, forgive me for this – but it's necessary," he whispered to her, shifting his hand to the back of her neck. He pressed his finger down sharply on a single pressure point, and felt her go limp in his arms.

"What did you do, Master?" Madame Sorelli exclaimed in shock.

"She's simply unconscious – I didn't want to do it before because it's quite dangerous, but she'll wake up in a few hours," he answered. "Please finish, she'll need to have her feed bandaged as soon as possible," he instructed immediately.

He softly kissed her brow as Madame Sorelli took out the last of the porcelain shards.

He didn't think he would have been able to take another second of seeing her in pain.

**A/N: Sorry I take so long to update this, I don't know why I always seem to forget! Thank you so much for the positive feedback I've been receiving, please review and tell me how you like it so far ^_^**

**-Evie**


	4. The Recovery

It was two weeks before Christine was able to walk again – two weeks of sitting in the same bed, only leaving with the assistance of Jammes, Madame Sorelli's little niece, the only servant in the house (other than Madame Sorelli, of course) who dared speak to her. She was growing very bored of the same four walls by the end of those fourteen days.

The loss of blood on her already weakened body kept her unconscious for over a day, and she was rather feverish on the second and third. By the fourth she had improved – whilst on the fifth she got worse, but it was on the seventh that Erik made his first appearance in her room. She began to hope that she might die before she had to see him again, but she chastised herself afterwards – to wish death upon yourself was a horrible sin.

On the morning of the seventh day, she awoke feeling better than she had that past week. Her fever had broken, and her feet had healed to a point where they were not constantly throbbing.

"The Master shall be very pleased," Jammes said eagerly as she helped Christine to sit up. "Oh, but you look so terrible!" she exclaimed.

"Thank you, Jammes," she retorted sarcastically. The little girl went pink, and Christine immediately felt horrible. "It's alright. I don't feel very wonderful, but at least I lost all that weight I had gained in winter," she conceded, trying to work up a smile.

"But you look so… so… _sick_," Jammes commented. Christine gave a small, bitter smile.

"Yes, well that's probably because I was sick. I don't look like this when I'm well," she teased.

"Oh! You must be so _hungry_! You've had nothing but a little soup for days!" Jammes cried. Christine's stomach growled in approval.

"I am quite hungry. But I'd rather have a bath before I ate," she replied.

"Of course! I'll to run the bath now!" the younger girl said with determination, jumping off the bed. Christine laughed as she ran into the bathroom. She ran out in a moment, and headed to the door, crying something about getting her some breakfast so she could eat in the tub.

"Careful, Jammes," came the familiar, melodious voice of Erik from the doorway.

"Oops! Sorry Master!"

"How is she?"

"Oh, very good! She's sitting up and everything! She says she's hungry, and I was going to run her a bath, too."

"Yes, well get to that now, she must be starved," he directed.

"Oh, of course! Right away, Master!" Jammes finished, before eagerly skipping down the hall. Erik stopped chuckling when he entered the room.

"So. You're alive," he stated, as if it were nothing more important than the weather.

"No. It's an illusion," Christine retorted sarcastically, sitting up in bed. She pulled her nightgown closer to her body, to cover her skin from his eyes.

"How are you feeling?" he questioned, strolling around the room with his hands in his pockets, as if he cared nothing for her at all.

"I believe my fever broke last night. My feet feel better," was her stiff response.

"Good. Another week should do it, I think," he stated calmly.

"May I have a calendar?" she requested. "And a watch?" she added hopefully. Erik blinked in surprise.

"What kind of watch would you like?" he asked simply, as if unsure of what else to say.

"I don't know," she shrugged.

"And do you want a calendar with pictures on it?" he questioned with complete seriousness.

"Anything but fluffy animals or old cottage houses," was her immediate response.

"Not a fan of fluffy things?"

"I'm bitter."

"Clearly."

"It's not that I don't _like_ fluffy things, they're cute and all, but I've never been able to stand looking at the same picture of a kitten with big pleading eyes for a month straight," she explained simply.

"Ah. So you don't like _cats_," he clarified. "Keep away from mine then, I have no desire to see her as the victim of a de-fluff project," he instructed sternly. Christine raised a questioning eyebrow.

"You have a _cat_?" she questioned blankly.

"Is that so difficult to believe?" he retorted instantly. She shrugged.

"You just don't seem like a cat person, and I've never seen it," she explained simply. "You kind of seem like a… a very large dog person," she said thoughtfully.

"I have dogs. I just don't let them come in the house. And my cat very rarely has any interest in making an appearance. I only see her once every few months," he answered.

"I like birds," Christine stated thoughtfully. "I'd rather a bird over a dog any day. Dogs are nice enough, but I'm not excited by them. Cats are mean and rodents smell. But birds are beautiful," she reasoned.

"Birds can be fluffy."

"They're _fuzzy_ or _feathery_, not fluffy," Christine corrected him, running a hand through her curls and glancing out the window wistfully.

"Had you not thrown such an impressive tantrum, you would be able to walk around the house and perhaps go outside by now, Christine," Erik commented. She scowled.

"Had you not kidnapped me from Paris, I would have been –"

"Miserable. I will go into town today to get your watch and calendar," he stated shortly. "Will there be anything else you require?"

"No."

"Very well. I will leave you," he replied, giving her a short nod. She glared at him angrily until he was no longer in the room.

She cursed her own stupidity. Had she not destroyed her feet, she might have been able to take such an opportunity to escape! Who knew if she would even be able to dance again?

Not that dancing mattered much to her. She had travelled to France when she was fourteen, just after the death of her father to stay with a distant relative, but only a month after her arrival she realised that she wouldn't be able to spend another minute there. She packed her bags and slipped away from the drunken man parading as her long lost cousin. She took the train from Bordeaux to Paris and never looked back.

Her first job was in the Paris Opera as a costume girl. It paid barely anything, but she was able to sleep in one of the spare dormitories and it was flexible enough to allow her to attend the local high school. Six months after moving into the theatre, she was allowed to dance in one or two of the numbers, and she became the personal assistant to _la Carlotta_ – a screeching soprano famed not for her talent, but her tantrums and demands. That led to the position of being a nanny in the vile woman's home after she had finished high school, looking after the two devils Angelo and Luigi.

It was true, she had very little in Paris, but it was all she had. Her inheritance was protected by some ridiculous old technicality that said she needed to be married in order to make a claim, and the little possessions that she had kept were locked up in a storage unit there. So until she married, it seemed that a life of poverty would be all she had.

After her bath she returned to her bed in misery, freshly laundered sheets hardly a comfort, more of a washing-powder scented prison. There was very little she could do. There were books on the shelf, but she couldn't reach them and she didn't know how to call for Madame Sorelli or Jammes to assist her. All she could do was sit in bed and dream of brilliant and fatal schemes to escape her prison.

"May I come in?" she heard a familiar, deep, melodious voice question from outside her room.

"It's your house, isn't it?" Christine snapped pointedly in retort. The door was pushed open slowly, and Erik, dressed once more in full black, stepped into the room.

"Entering a woman's room unannounced is not a custom that I tend to practise," he informed her with detached coolness. "I come bearing gifts – the watch you requested," he announced, holding forth a simple black bag.

"Thank you," she murmured quietly, taking the bag from him. Out fell a small velvet box with the name of some fancy jeweller stamped across the front. She opened it to find the most gorgeous diamond watch she had ever seen, made from white gold with large face and roman numerals, a small square with the date and month by the centre, rendering a calendar useless. "This must have cost a fortune!" she objected, her eyes widening as she took in the beauty of it. "I can't take this. It's too expensive," she said firmly, closing the box, and pushing it away from her. Erik rolled his eyes.

"Really, Christine, it was very reasonable, and it's not like I can't afford it," he retorted simply. "You were raised in a life of luxury. How can you be so averse to returning to that sort of comfort?" he questioned incredulously.

"That was a long time ago," she retorted quietly. "I've had to live in poverty since I was fourteen – I'm not _used_ to this kind of stuff," she explained.

"How long do you expect it will take you to grow accustomed to this?" he questioned with seldom seen impatience, leaning against the doorframe and regarding her with a cool expression. Christine chewed her lip.

"I don't want to get used to it. I don't deserve this kind of stuff," she murmured bitterly, lowering her gaze to the floor.

"Regardless of whether or not you think you deserve it, I won't have my charge wandering around in rags," he interrupted her self-pity.

"I can't accept it," she said finally, her jaw set and firm.

"Then don't think of it as a gift. Think of it as a trade," he shrugged simply. "You let me give you singing lessons, and I give you the watch," he suggested.

"How on earth does _that_ make sense?" Christine questioned doubtfully. Erik gave a small growl of annoyance, and rolled his pale eyes.

"Just take the damn watch, Christine, and don't question me in the future," he snapped, making a move to leave the room.

"I'm not singing again, but… thank you," she said suddenly. He paused his stride, and turned to look at her doubtfully. "I don't mean thank you for kidnapping me and taking me away from the only home I have left, I mean thank you for the watch. It's very pretty," she stated with as much sincerity as she could muster. Erik nodded. "Can I please ask why? Why you –"

"Because I'm a man of my word, Christine," he said finally, his tone revealing that he was quite exasperated with her constant questioning. "I'm not a good man, I'll confess to that much, I'm not gentle, forgiving or understanding, and I have no desire for you to think I am. But I made a vow that for you, I will at least attempt to be all those things that I know I'm not," he continued stiffly. Christine winced with the truth of his words. "I can be patient, but not always, Christine. You would do well not to test me," he advised her sternly.

"I owe you _nothing_!" she cried angrily.

"Perhaps you don't. Perhaps you don't owe me your obedience, but I will expect it, nevertheless," he replied simply, before stepping out into the hall, and closing the door behind him.

Christine angrily kicked the box off her bed, where it bounced harmlessly to the floor, out of her reach.

She lay back on the bed in silence. There was nothing to do but sit.

* * *

Erik stormed down the hallway to his private music room in anger. Why was she so stubborn? She had been living there for almost two weeks, and although he could almost count all their encounters during that time on one hand, he had expected her to get over the whole 'oh woe is me, a big scary masked man kidnapped me' thing much quicker!

He slammed the door to his music room shut, the frame giving a shudder with the force of his actions. He ignored the building's protest and immediately sat down before his piano, settling into an angry, furious sequence of staccato chords that would have struck fear into a grown man's heart. He had that power over music, like a snake charmer did over his reptilian friends. He could bend it and twist it to do his bidding, he could make his listener weep, scream, burn, laugh or send them into a hypnotic trance, he had that power. He had that power over every instrument he had ever touched! His hands were magic – his voice was ethereal, why couldn't he control Christine with his music, not his words?

He growled angrily at himself. '_Not control_', he reminded his own subconscious, '_you don't want to control her. You want her to trust you; you want to teach her, to craft her voice into perfection'_.

That was the arrangement he had with Charles Daaé, he would keep a watchful eye over little Christine, and when she finished school, he would take her into his home as his protégée. He had _wanted_ to take the little girl with him to Southern France the moment that he heard her sing, never had he heard such a pure and perfect sound come from such a young mouth. But no, he promised Daaé that he would wait, he wanted his daughter to finish school, and he knew Erik well enough to realise that he would make little to no effort of giving Christine an education, other than music, that is.

He just hadn't expected, when he finally found her in Paris a few months earlier after she'd slipped off his radar, that she would be so… beautiful. He had pictured the gangly, pasty fourteen year-old-girl he had last seen at her father's funeral, not the stunning, curvaceous young woman that was in the room down the hall, with her ivory skin and the striking combination of dark hair, dark eyes and full red lips, no, he hadn't expected her to be so attractive. Or so fiery.

He chuckled as his fingers soothed into some old melody that he had composed years ago. She was exactly what he needed, what he desired, yet she despised him.

She was annoying, childish, stubborn and tempestuous. She had too much pride to let him see her tears, too much integrity to see how frightened she was, but he didn't see those as faults. He didn't know _how_ he felt about the waif, but he certainly didn't despise her.

* * *

Erik didn't visit Christine the rest of that week. She sat in her bed all day, waiting for her feet to heal as she poured over every book in her bedroom, and once she had finished them all, she read them again. There was very little could do to pass her time; she didn't even have her music with her! She felt like she was going insane, spending over two weeks without an ipod or CD in sight! She couldn't bear to live in such a silent world, without her one great passion in life.

"Now Mistress, you have to take it slowly," Jammes instructed firmly, holding Christine by the arm as she slowly walked around her bedroom, swallowing winces of pain as she put pressure on her feet. The cuts had all healed over, and the new skin was strong enough to walk on, but movement still stung her painfully.

"It'll be fine, Jammes," Christine assured her firmly. "I just need to wear some slippers, and I'll be perfectly alright," she continued, walking towards the wardrobe with determination, Jammes allowing her to make the trek on her own.

"Shall I tell the Master that you'll be eating with him this morning?" Jammes inquired excitedly. Christine chewed her lip, and sighed.

"Well I suppose so – I _did_ say I'd eat with him," she murmured bitterly, flicking on the wardrobe light. Her wide eyes took in every piece of gorgeous clothing.

"Right then! I'll go tell him right away, Mistress, would you like me to help you dress?"

"No, thank you Jammes, but I'll be fine," Christine assured her with a weak smile, before the girl disappeared in a flutter of red curls and good intentions.

Christine dressed in silence, pulling on a pair of dark leggings and a gorgeous oversized white lace shirt that was a few inches shy of her knees. She pulled on a pair of soft-sole flannel ballet flats over her still heavily bandaged feet and tied her hair back into a loose ponytail, before slowly making her way out of her bedroom and down the hall. She clung tightly to the banister as she struggled down the stairs, cursing her stupidity two weeks ago by throwing such a violent tantrum. She shuffled over the highly polished marble floor to the breakfast room where the scene had taken place, finally taking refuge by leaning heavily on the doorway, wincing in pain.

"Good morning," Erik greeted tonelessly, not even glancing up from his newspaper. Christine said nothing as she stumbled over to the breakfast table and took a seat, grateful for the opportunity to take pressure off her aching feet. "How are you?" he questioned, turning a page in his paper casually.

"Alive," she murmured in response.

"You don't look it."

"Thanks, your flattery is just too much," she drawled sarcastically.

"Well eat something for God's sake," he instructed, folding his paper and tossing it aside.

"Do you mind if I have a look at that?" she questioned timidly.

"As a matter of fact, yes, I do," he answered pointedly, pouring her a cup of tea. "How are your feet?" he inquired, moving the conversation right along.

"I can walk. Not very quickly, and it still hurts, but I can get from A to B," she shrugged, reaching for a freshly made baguette. Her new watch jingled around her wrist, she knew that he had noticed it, but said nothing.

"I'll send someone out to fetch you some crutches," Erik muttered, sipping his own cup of tea distractedly.

"Uh, Erik?" she questioned, after a few minutes of silence had passed.

"Yes, Christine?"

"Do you have any music here?" she asked quietly. "Any CDs, anything? It's just… my ipod is back in my room in Paris, and it's been over two weeks since I've listened to any. I'm just… very bored," she murmured quickly, hanging her head. Erik chuckled.

"'Do I have any music here'?" he muttered mockingly. "What kind of music would you like to listen to, Christine?" he then asked patiently. She could tell he was grinning.

"Anything. Anything at all, I just need to listen to _something!_ There's nothing to do in that room," she begged him. He gave another grin.

"Then we'll go to the music room after you've eaten a proper meal," he declared.

"You have a music _room_ in this place?" she exclaimed in surprise.

"When your feet have fully healed remind me to give you a tour," he responded. "Now are you actually going to eat, or simply play with your food like a kitten?" he questioned doubtfully. Christine felt an angry flush rise to her cheeks, but he held up a silencing hand when she opened her mouth to retort. "No, Christine, just eat. Save your breath," he advised. Stabbing her tartine with the butter knife, Christine turned back to her breakfast in silence.

Erik called one of the kitchen girls into the dining room and gave her instructions to go into town and fetch Christine some crutches so she could walk, to which she complied with impressive speed. Christine had barely finished her meal when the girl rushed in with two steel walking sticks with wrist supporters and handles for her use.

"Thank you, that will be all," Erik declared, taking the crutches off the young girl, who curtseyed, and scrambled from the room.

"How far are we from town?" Christine asked in surprise, setting down her napkin as she brushed the last little crumbs of breakfast from her fingers.

"Not that far if you use some sort of transportation, she probably fetched a horse or car," Erik shrugged, adjusting the crutches to meet her height.

"You have horses?" she questioned doubtfully. He nodded.

"Yes. I'll have to teach you how to ride," he responded.

"What else do you have here?" Christine exclaimed in surprise.

"You'll have to wait for the tour, my dear," Erik replied, passing the crutches to her. She slowly rose to her feet, using the crutches as support. She pulled away slightly when Erik attempted to assist her – she saw the slightest flicker of disappointment flash in his eyes, but it was gone before she had the chance to contemplate it.

"I – I don't think I can get up the stairs," she murmured quietly, as she hobbled out of the dining room. Erik raised an eyebrow, and glanced up at the grand staircase.

"I see your dilemma. Perhaps you would like some assistance?" he offered, almost sheepishly.

"No. I'd rather struggle," she retorted instantly, but felt stupid the moment the words slipped from her mouth. He _was_, after all, trying to be kind to her. Maybe she should…

_What are you ON, Christine_? her subconscious screamed. _Are you developing Stockholm Syndrome or something? The man kidnapped you! You can't feel sorry for him!_

"I understand perfectly," Erik said stiffly. "You must be tired. I'll fetch Madame Sorelli for you," he snapped, turning heel, leaving her alone in the great hall.

Christine knew that he didn't deserve her pity or kindness, not after what he had done, but he _did_ seem rather hurt as he stormed out of the room.

She didn't see him again that day; Jammes informed her that he had 'gone out'. She was grateful that she didn't have to struggle through conversation with him, disappointed that she could no longer go and see the music room, and ashamed. She was ashamed because she knew that she had been childish, but also ashamed that she felt lonely without him.

She took her time hobbling upstairs to return to her room for the night, knowing that it would only be boredom she was returning to.

She felt a tiny grin play on her lips as she entered the bedroom.

Sitting on the bedside table was her ipod – the same ipod that she had left in Paris.

Maybe Erik wasn't so bad after all…

**A/N: I think this is about where I stopped when I last posted this fic a year or so ago, so for any readers who were familiar with it previously, I think the next chapter will be new to you :D I hope you're enjoying reading this story, and please review! I love to hear from you all ^_^**


	5. The Tour

"Good morning, Christine," Erik greeted her stiffly as she hobbled into the dining room the next day. She lowered her eyes momentarily, before meeting his with a tiny, weak smile.

"Good morning, Erik," she murmured quietly. He raised a brow at her unusual display of meekness, but said nothing as she seated herself.

"How are you feeling?" he questioned, once she had settled comfortably, her crutches resting by the side of the table.

"Fine," she answered, her voice short but not angered as it had been the day before, it was almost as if she… was ashamed? He examined her with a slight frown as he poured her a cup of tea. He had grown accustomed to her resistance; to see her so quiet and compliant was rather unusual. "Uhh… thank you for… getting me my ipod," she said softly.

_Ah_, he realised, _she's confused because I did something kind for her_. _Teenage girls are rather confusing_.

"It was no trouble," he answered simply.

"So where are we then? I was thinking perhaps England, maybe Belgium – or Germany?" she questioned insistently. "After all, you weren't gone for days, maybe even Portugal or Spain? Or are we still in France?" she continued, her dark eyes shining inquisitively. For the first time she had seen, Erik looked unsettled. He lowered his eyes, and took a sip of his black tea, saying nothing. "Well? I know we can't be that far from Paris, half a day, really, but I'm assuming we're on a coast somewhere, maybe Italy?" she probed.

"Christine, you ask far too many questions," he snapped in retort, setting down his tea. He had been reluctant to make the trip to Paris because he knew she might discover their location, but he felt that a kind gesture was necessary. He could already see the first layer of her armour dissolve.

He had discovered, during his travels and work and general experience of life (it was remarkable how much one can learn of the human race when they once made a living of deceiving them), that people had many layers. He had more experience with men than women, but he had the idea that women in particular were very complicated, far more so than men.

He viewed Christine as a challenge. She had many, _many_ layers, more than he had ever seen in any human being, and the one he longed to reveal was buried beneath what seemed like hundreds of others. There was anger, bitterness, coldness, vulnerability and sorrow, but there was also joy and love and compassion. He just had to work at peeling off each layer until he could find who she really was.

She winced at the sternness in his voice, and lowered her head. He cursed himself for frightening her – he truly did forget how to act around people sometimes. He was normally very solitary. His manners weren't in the best of shape.

"Good heavens child, I've told you – I won't hurt you," he muttered almost sheepishly. "Just eat your breakfast and stop being so curious. It's a dangerous trait," he added sternly. Christine's cheeks flushed, and she continued to pick at her breakfast in silence. Erik masked a short sigh of discomfort by continuing to speak. "I think it best that you take a nap this morning, and we shall commence with a small tour after lunch," he stated after a short pause.

"Really?" Christine questioned doubtfully.

"I am a man of my word," he assured her calmly. Christine couldn't help but smile slightly as she turned back to her breakfast. Perhaps… things were looking up.

* * *

"The master seems to get along _so well_ with you," Jammes gushed a little later after Christine had returned to her room. She sat on her large bed as Jammes brushed her hair (despite Christine having assured her a million times that she didn't need to), and conversation had obviously ensured. Christine was growing to like Jammes, she was a little annoying occasionally, but she enjoyed having someone only three or four years younger than her to speak with.

"He kidnapped me, Jammes, that doesn't always imply friendship," Christine reminded her as she played with a loose thread hanging from her coverlet.

"I can tell he likes you. He's normally so quiet and keeps to himself, but he's different around you, it's all in his eyes," she sighed dreamily. Christine raised a brow. She was beginning to suspect Jammes of being a bit of a romantic.

"How long have you been here?" she asked curiously.

"Since I was seven," she answered cheerfully. Christine started with surprise.

"Are you serious? That long?" she exclaimed in shock. Jammes nodded.

"He's known my Aunt for many years, and when my parents died he agreed that I could come live with her here," she explained. "When I first started he wasn't living here much, we just had to keep the house clean and tidy, and every few weeks he'd come home," she informed her. Christine slowly nodded.

"Where was he?"

"I think he was in Switzerland, visiting an old friend, Aunt said. She'd been here for many more years; he only came to leave here all the time about... well, six years ago, I think," she answered thoughtfully, before smiling. "I've been here for over half my life now. He said he would give me money to go to a good boarding school, but I like staying here, and I like earning my keep," she added, running the brush slowly over Christine's long dark curls.

"But what about your education?" she exclaimed in confusion. "Don't you go to school at all?" she questioned.

"I go to school everyday in the village like a normal girl, I help in the mornings and afternoons, and the Master always lets me have Sunday rest," she answered factually. "But it's the holidays now, and Master doesn't mind if I don't practise my German or numbers – but he's very strict on my French. He says that I need to read everyday, or else I won't be properly educated and I'll be working as a maid my whole life," she informed her with a giggle. "But I don't mind that at all. I hate reading dusty old books! I know I'm not clever. I like cleaning and tidying, it lets me think and daydream. I'd be happy working in here for the rest of my life," she added cheerfully.

"So… Erik is good to you?" Christine questioned doubtfully. Jammes nodded with vigour.

"Always. He has an _awful_ temper though, so I try not to bother him when he's in a mood. But he's very sweet, really," she assured her.

"I guess… that you know him better than I do," Christine sighed softly. "I'm just so determined to hate him, though. He hardly ever tells me anything, and he took me away from Paris for no good reason – I just wish… I wish he would talk to me. Tell me _why_," she hoped aloud.

"He's difficult to get to know, Mistress. But I think he's _quite_ taken with you," Jammes replied simply. "You're a lucky girl. All the girls in the village are _so_ jealous that I live here, we all know he's _very_ rich, and so handsome too!" she continued, eager to have someone to talk to.

"Do you know why he wears that mask?" Christine found herself questioning, ignoring Jammes' comments about her 'luck'.

"No one knows," she denied, shaking her head in the negative. "Some people say it's because he was burnt horribly in a fire when he was young, others think he was touched by the devil himself and scarred for being able to master music in a way that the angels have never been able to do," she practically whispered in a conspiratorial tone.

"He's a musician?"

"He's _more_ than a musician, Mistress – he _is_ music! There's not an instrument on this earth he can't play, and he has a voice that God himself envies!" she informed her in a hushed, reverend tone, as if paying respect to the man's incredible talents.

"Then why doesn't he play music for the world? Why does he hide away here in the middle of nowhere?" she questioned. The eager light flickered from Jammes' eyes, and an expression of slight pain crossed her face.

"Mistress Christine, there are some questions you mustn't ask," she murmured warningly.

"Well what are they? And why not?" Christine demanded curiously.

"My Aunt said to me, when I was a little girl and first came here, that the Master is a very mysterious man, and that I must respect that. If you intend on knowing the Master, you must never ask him about his mask, how he got his money, and what he is doing here, so far from wherever he came from," Jammes continued, her tone almost deadly serious. Christine felt a nervous chill in the pit of her stomach. "I can only imagine what he would do if you ever asked those questions, or if you ever found out the answers," she muttered.

"But I -"

"Oh, and there's one more," Jammes interrupted. "My Aunt didn't tell me this, but I think it's the most important of all," she explained quietly.

"Well? What is it?"

"You must never, ever, _ever_ ask the Master who he _really_ is," she said finally. Christine blinked in surprise, her mind spinning a hundred miles an hour. "But as long as you remember these things, Mistress, you will be very happy here. There is much to entertain," she continued, her tone jolly and cheerful once more. Christine wanted to ask her a hundred questions, but she held back, and pasted a happy smile on her face.

"So, uh, he mentioned that he has a music room here?" she questioned with a raised brow. Jammes beamed, eager to continue their discussion on less dangerous topics.

"He's _brilliant_, Mistress Christine, absolutely _brilliant_. You'll have to ask him to play for you. I'm sure you'll love it," she assured her firmly. "You'll love it just as much as the master must love you!" she added, with a playful twinkle in her eye. Christine's cheeks flushed red.

"Jammes! He doesn't _love_ me, he kidnapped me! And he's too old for me!" she exclaimed in surprise. "Why, he must be at _least_ a fifteen years my senior – maybe more! And we always fight, we can hardly stand to be in the same room together!" she continued vehemently, but Jammes only grinned, taking Christine's passionate reaction to her claim as one of affirmation, rather than denial.

"We had best pick out a nice frock for you to wear for the Master, he'll want to see you in your best," she deduced suddenly, sliding off the edge of the bed and immediately rushing to the closet door.

"Jammes, Erik does _not_ like me," Christine said firmly.

"This one, I think!" she heard Jammes respond, as she ran out of the closet with a pale pink dress held in hand. "You had best put it on now, I'll go tell cook that you're almost ready for lunch," she threw in finally, tossing Christine the dress before quickly slipping out into the hall.

"Erik does _not_ like me," Christine found murmuring to herself as she changed. "And I _hate_ him," she added firmly.

'Then why,' she thought to herself as she descended the stairs to the dining room, wearing the simple, put pretty pale pink and white lace dress Jammes had picked out for her, 'Am I practically trembling with the idea of spending the afternoon with him?' she questioned.

"Well, child, you seem to have regained some colour," Erik commented, glancing over his paper as she hobbled into the dining room with the assistance of her crutches. "Did you rest today, like I suggested?" he questioned as she took a seat.

"For a little while. I sat a little while in the parlour and read, too," she shrugged.

"Hmm. And what did you read?" he asked curiously, lowering his eyes once more to his paper.

"An English book. I haven't practised my English for a while," she answered, pouring herself a cup of tea.

"And did you enjoy it?" he questioned, turning a page in his paper.

"Oh. Yes, I am so far, it's about Egypt and deserts and a Hungarian Count, and he falls in love with an English woman, only she's married to someone else," she explained, before her cheeks turned pink when she realised she was blabbering. Erik chuckled.

"I know it well. '_The English Patient_' – it's also a very impressive film," he informed her with a small smile.

"I suppose you think it's silly," she muttered quietly. He laughed.

"Not at all. It's actually one of my favourites. The film is in English, but I'm certain you'll be able to understand it," he assured her. "We'll watch it sometime, you and I," he declared, before turning back to his paper. For some reason, it caused a little shiver of anticipation to run through Christine's spine.

"But not today?" she questioned.

"No. Today I want to show you a round my home a little," he informed her. "There are of course, rooms you are not permitted to enter without me, and rooms you cannot enter at all, do you understand this?" he questioned warningly. She nodded. "There are others, though, that I am sure you will enjoy. The library, for one. We will save the music room for a little while later, when you've regained some of your strength –"

"But I want to see it _today_!" Christine objected petulantly. Erik smirked.

"Such impatience. You will see it, Christine, but not today. Today I will show you only the lower floor, and I'm quite certain you will be exhausted by the time we are halfway through," he replied.

"How big is this house? What kind of house _is _it?" she questioned curiously.

"It's not a house, it's a castle," he answered simply. Christine's eyes widened slightly in surprise. "It has three main floors, in addition to the cellars, the attics and several towers, all up it has well over a hundred rooms, probably about two or three hundred, really," he murmured thoughtfully.

"Good lord. That's mad," she exclaimed quietly.

"Hardly. It's practical, each of the rooms has a purpose," he stated firmly.

"Are there dungeons?" she questioned suddenly. He closed his paper.

"Yes, and they are forbidden. The dungeons, cellars and attics, and what is behind the front doors of the foyer are completely off limits, Christine, as are my personal chambers. Under no circumstances are you _ever_ to enter them without my personal accompaniment and express permission, do you understand?" he asked firmly. She nodded. "There are more rooms that I will not have you enter, but for now, I will leave it to those. My study I will allow you entry, but only when I am with you," he added. She nodded once more.

"And the music room? Can I enter that when I want?" she asked almost timidly. He sighed.

"I didn't mean to frighten you, Christine. Yes, you may enter the music room whenever you wish. There are just some rooms that I would rather keep private," he said calmly.

"I understand."

"Good. Then I believe we are making progress – we have achieved understanding," he declared, as if in relief. Christine wanted to cry out '_no_, we've not achieved understanding – because I still don't know why I'm here!', but something stopped her from speaking. She sipped her tea in silence.

After a brief repast, Erik declared the beginning of their tour, and Christine found herself eagerly rising to her feet. They began in the ballroom, where she had attempted a poorly executed escape plan two weeks earlier, before veering off through the maze of hallways.

"You recognise this room, I trust?" he questioned, as they stepped into the grand (and intimidating) dining room where she had eaten her first meal with Erik. "Normally I will take dinner in this room. It's the way that the servants are used to, so I will expect you to eat in here with me each night," he added. She swallowed, and nodded, wishing the room wasn't as intimidating as it was. "And be prepared to change each night for dinner, too. I don't expect terribly formal attire, but it's a tradition I expect you to uphold," he added.

"It's so old-fashioned," she muttered beneath her breath.

"_I_, Christine, am also old-fashioned, as are the staff and the village surrounding _le château_. It's just the way things are done," he said calmly. "I won't bother showing you the kitchens, or the servant's quarters, if they wish to show you, they will, but I will respect their privacy now," he continued, leading her back out of the dining room. "There are two parlours that lead off from this room. When this house was made, the women and men would separate after dinner in each, but that is not expected now. There are several sitting rooms and parlours on this floor, and they're all named by colour," he informed her, pushing open the door to one.

"I like this," she muttered thoughtfully, stepping into the room. It was decorated in the same pinks, golds and creams as her own rooms.

"This is the rose room. Traditionally, only women enter this room, thus it's not used much. You may come in here as often as you like, but please inform Madame Sorelli where you are at all times, this castle is easy to get lost in," he requested. She nodded, and followed his lead back out into the hall. "This is called the burgundy room, usually reserved for the men," he added, pulling open another door. It was _terribly_ masculine, with very strong dark wood, the furniture and walls covered in burgundy silk, and a gold trim. Christine swallowed. The room was actually somewhat intimidating.

"So there's the rose one and the burgundy one," she muttered, as if to memorise the new information.

"You'll get the hang of it. You've already seen the breakfast room – I have a gym down that hall, but I doubt it would be of much interest to you," he commented. Christine scowled.

"Are you calling me fat?" she questioned sharply. He turned to her in surprise.

"Of course not. You just don't seem the type to use a gym," he explained simply. She crossed her arms against her chest.

"So you _are_ calling me fat," she stated coolly. He rolled his pale eyes.

"Good Lord. I can't win with you," he muttered. "You're small and weak. There, I said it, now hate me. You have no need to go to a gym, and physically I doubt you could handle the workout," he stated, holding his arms up as if in surrender. Christine found herself laughing. He raised a brow in surprise. "Well what _now_?" he questioned incredulously.

"Nothing. I'm a bit surprised. Most of the time, if you try something like that on a man, he'd be too afraid to answer," she giggled. Erik lowered his arms, and stepped forwards.

"I'll let you in on a secret, Christine," he practically whispered in her ear. Unwillingly, she felt her entire body tingle. "There is very little you could do to make me afraid of you," he informed her, before stepping away with a small smirk.

"Oh really?" she squeaked a few moments later, when she was lucid enough to reply. He nodded.

"I'm not the kind of man that frightens easily," he stated simply. "Something we have in common, I think," he added with a little twinkle in his pale eyes. Christine felt herself smile as he winked, and then turned to continue their tour. She ducked her head slightly to conceal her slight grin.

_You hate him, right_? her brain reminded her.

"Still, I'd rather you didn't go in the gym without me. It's very easy to hurt yourself in there if you don't know what you're doing," he called back, startling her from her sudden thoughts. She limped hastily to catch up with him in the long hallway.

"Well how do I keep fit?" she questioned with a slight frown. "I mean, in Paris I was always running after Angelo and Luigi, so it was easy to stay healthy. I suppose I could jog around the place," she muttered thoughtfully, glancing around the long hallways.

"Do you still swim?" he asked, turning back to her for a moment. She nodded. "Good. I remember you were a strong swimmer, your father used to ask me to watch over you when you went in the pool," he commented.

"You have a pool?" she asked in surprise.

"An indoor one, then there's another in the gardens, and I'm quite certain you'll be able to swim in the courtyard pond, it has a few fish, but it's reasonably clear," he informed her.

"You have so many _things_," she muttered quietly.

"Hmm. I suppose so," he shrugged. "And when you're fully recovered I'm sure you can take walks, and I also plan on teaching you to ride," he added.

"So I'll be here long enough to learn to ride horseback, will I?" she questioned, unable to hide the slight accusation in her tone.

"You're just repeating yourself now, child. You have free leave to attempt to escape, but you're not getting out of here anytime soon, my dear," he assured her, pulling open a door, and gesturing for her to step through it.

It led to the most gorgeous courtyard she had ever seen. Green moss was practically covering the white marble stones that lined the ground beneath her feet, flowers grew freely and without organisation around a large square pond that glittered cerulean under the warm sun, lilies floating innocently atop the surface. Up the stone steps was a mass of lush green grass bordered with flowers and trees and shrubbery so dense that she could hardly see the tall stone wall coated in moss and ivy that separated her from the rest of the world. She could see the woods behind the garden and glimpses of the ocean in the distance. It was like the entire world was being offered to her, but she was only allowed to sit in one little part. It was a perfect garden, with a perfect gazebo and perfect places to sit or lie down or read, but it was just another perfectly beautiful _cage_.

"Well? What do you think? Soon you'll be able to come out here as often as you like, my dear," he promised, turning to gage her reaction. He was somewhat surprised to see a single tear rolling down her cheek, her dark eyes unfocused and bottom lip quivering slightly. "Christine?" he questioned gently, his voice laced with concern.

"You stole me from the only home I had in the middle of the night. The few people that actually cared about me will probably never know what happened to me," she began, swallowing down more tears. "You caged me, mocked me, I've had my feet torn to shreds and for two weeks I couldn't even leave my bed," she continued steadily, but her voice slowly began to shake with intensity. "But this, monsieur, this is the cruellest thing you've done to me. You've given me the slightest glimpse of freedom, the smallest little bit of hope, but it's a caged hope. A caged freedom," she muttered, turning to face him. "You might as well kill me," she said finally.

Erik's eyes narrowed and his lips curled downwards into a frown.

"Your melodramatics would fit in well in a theatre, Christine, but here they aren't necessary. You have no reason to fear your life when you have _me_," he snapped.

"My _melodramatics_?" she repeated wildly, stepping back in anger. "If I'm miserable and upset then I have a reason to be! How would you feel, monsieur, if you lost the most important person in your life, and just when you thought you were beginning to deal with it, you were taken away from all you had left and weren't given a reason _why_?" she questioned angrily. "How would _you_ like to wake up every day, not even knowing if you're going to live to see the next one? You won't even tell me _why_ I'm here!" she cried desperately.

"I already told you. It's because I made a promise, and I'm a man of my word!" he practically roared, frightening Christine with the intensity of his emotions. But she did not relent.

"Well what was the promise? Who did you make it to? And why was this the only way you could keep that promise?" she asked wildly.

"One day, Christine, you will understand why I did what I did! One day you'll know that this was my only way, and you will have to be contented with your knowledge for now," he snapped finally, ending the discussion. His breathing was heavier than usual with the force of their brief, but intense argument, and a single strand had come loose from his normally perfect hair. "Now come. I have yet to show you the library," he said gruffly.

"I want to stay out here. I haven't been outside for weeks," she muttered.

"I have other things I need to do today, Christine, and I'm in no mood to sit out here watching you all afternoon," he said shortly.

"Well I'm not asking for your company!" she retorted with frustration.

"Not yet, Christine. I am not yet prepared to leave you on your own," he said calmly. She scowled.

"I've been on my own these past three weeks."

"No you haven't. And I'm not leaving you out here, even in your weakened state, only to return to an empty garden," he snapped.

"What, don't you trust me?" she questioned incredulously.

"No, Christine, I don't, and that's the simple truth of the matter. I don't trust you to remain here, even under my instruction. And until I _do_, you will be accompanied by me, Jammes, Madame Sorelli or one of the other servants wherever you go," he decided in a very matter-of-fact tone. Christine lowered her eyes and glared at the ground in anger. "Come now. The library awaits, and I'm quite sure you'll enjoy it," he commanded, turning back to the house. He didn't leave the garden until he was certain Christine was following.

Christine couldn't help the almost unbearable aching she felt when she stepped outside, the fresh air blowing on her face. It was like a dream come true. She felt alive and free for the first time in weeks, but to have such little time out of doors was the cruellest torture ever known. All she wanted to was to go back outside and leave the stone gates. She just wanted to run away.

"The library is free for your use. You will want to be careful, as some of the books are over two-hundred years old, but you should always find something to entertain you on the shelves," he began, leading her down the hallway once more to a pair of heavy gilded mahogany doors. He pushed them open with the brass handles and revealed the threshold to her.

It was the biggest library she had _ever_ seen. It was astronomical in size, and spread up three floors in what she supposed was one of the towers. There were books everywhere, hundreds of thousands or even _millions_ of books, organised perfectly on shelves that reached as high as the ceiling, long ladders on rolling wheels leaning against the shelves to allow the reader access to different volumes, armchairs and lounges and footstools in each corner or sitting before large fireplaces, thick rugs covering the parquet floorboards, it was a paradise. Huge windows that took up entire walls gave a most impressive view, showing both the ocean and the forest, and a little cobbled road that wound through the trees, supposedly leading to the village.

Her heart gave another lurch to see the ocean, she hadn't been for many years, and she longed to feel the salt water around her body once more.

"Do you like it?" he asked with hesitation.

"It's beautiful. It's amazing," she murmured softly. "I guess... now I know why you don't seem to like the rest of the world. Who needs the rest of the world when they have this many books?" she questioned quietly, looking around in wonder.

"You're of the opinion that I dislike the rest of the world?" he questioned with slight uncomfortableness.

"Yes. That's exactly my opinion," she replied simply, gazing upwards to the top of the cylindrical room. Erik didn't respond. "So I can come in here whenever I want?" she asked, breaking out of her trance to turn to him. He nodded.

"But I do ask that you inform me or Madame Sorelli that you will be in here. It's difficult to keep track of you otherwise," he replied. "Most of these books are in French or English. There are some in German, and others in languages I know you don't speak. But I can translate, if you really wish it," he informed her, glancing around. "Ring for one of the servants if you need anything, they'll be happy to assist you. Particularly if you requite a book from a high shelf, as you're in no condition to climb the ladders," he added.

"Are you leaving?" she questioned, to which he nodded.

"Yes. I will be in my study, I'll expect you at dinner," he replied, before giving a short nod. "Happy reading, Christine. I'll see you this evening," he finished, leaving the room before she could say another word.

Christine sighed as she looked around the large room. After a few minutes perusing the shelves, she selected a book she remembered fondly from her childhood, and made her way over to the large windows. There was plush red seat that ran along the rim, a giant window seat, really. It was long enough to stretch from one end of the window to the other, and wide enough that she could stretch out in any position she wished and would still have room. Lying on her stomach with the book propped up before her, she settled comfortably for what promised to be a long, lazy read.

**A/N: So, as per request, Christine is starting to like Erik, just a little. But she still wants out, so don't get too comfortable :D I should be updating every three days or so, so please review and tell me what you think!**


	6. The First Desires

Erik couldn't help but smile at the image presented to him.

He had gone looking for his charge when she didn't make an appearance at dinner, and grew concerned when Jammes informed him that she hadn't seen her since lunch. He knew there was no way she could have escaped, but he _was_ worried she might have hurt herself trying.

He found her curled up on the window-bed with a copy of _Peter Pan and Wendy_ in her arms, fast asleep, silky brown curls flowing freely over her shoulders and face. She really was the prettiest little thing when she slept, her beautiful features softened, chest rising and falling slowly as she took in air. Gently he took the book from her hands and placed it on the small table beside the window-bed, and took a blanket that hung over one of the lounges to warm her.

Unable to resist the temptation, he reached out to brush a lock of hair from her face, and found his fingers tracing the line of her jaw. She was a stunning creature. Probably the most beautiful young girl he had ever seen, and it was becoming difficult to constantly remind himself of her young age and unattainability. Her father had asked him to look after her, not _date_ her, for goodness sake.

He pulled his hand away and felt an unpleasant tug on his heart. She really was too beautiful for it to be convenient for him. He sighed before turning to the fireplace. It was just coming into summer, but some of the nights could be quite cold, and he didn't want Christine to shiver. He took some matches from a little case above the fire and lit the kindling that already sat in the grate, tossing a few logs atop it to feed the flames.

He'd always felt a strange attraction to fire. It was difficult to explain why he was so... drawn to it. It was beautiful, alive with movement and colour and warmth, but it was also destructive and dangerous. It wasn't strong and unmoving, like the earth, or life-giving and refreshing like the air, and it didn't cool and heal like the water, it destroyed whatever came into its path.

Sometimes, he felt like fire.

"Mmm... Erik?" he heard a whimper come from the window-bed. He looked up to see his charge shifting and making a move to sit up, squinting and pushing her hair back from her face as her eyes focused to the change of light.

"Go back to sleep, Christine," he replied, rising to his feet and easing her back, pulling the blanket up to cover her once more.

"What time is it?" she yawned.

"A little after nine. That's alright, you're tired," he answered quietly, taking advantage of her not-so-lucid state to brush her hair back himself. She unconsciously turned her cheek into his hand and gave a sleepy sort of sigh.

"Did I miss dinner?" she mumbled tiredly.

"It's alright, I don't mind. Just go back to sleep," he instructed with a small smile.

"Will you show me the music rooms tomorrow?" she asked quietly.

"Of course, my darling. And we'll start your singing lessons tomorrow, too. But we have to be up nice and early, so try to get some sleep," he directed. She nodded sleepily, her breathing slowing. He pulled the blanket up to cover her form once more, and, unable to resist, pressed the tiniest of kisses to her brow, before pulling away. With a bitter smile, he left her in the room.

It was not his place to fall for his charge. He just needed a reminder of that.

* * *

Christine couldn't help but wonder if the night before had been a dream.

She'd fallen asleep in the library, and sometime in the night she was awoken by the sounds of someone making a fire... she'd seen Erik crouched before the grate, staring at the flames with an expression of intense thought on his face, and sadness in his eyes. She made a small noise and the sadness was gone, replaced with concern. He urged her to return to sleep, and gently pushed her hair from her face. She might have even felt him kiss her forehead, she wasn't sure. But she just didn't know he could be so... gentle.

After waking the next day she crept upstairs and back into her room to shower and change, her stomach rumbling in hunger. She'd not eaten since lunch the day before, and even then it was not much.

"Oh! _There_ you are, Mistress! I was so worried!" Jammes exclaimed when Christine stepped out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her still damp body. "Master! I've found her!" she cried happily, ducking her head out of the room.

"I told you Jammes, she hadn't gone anywhere," came Erik's deep voice as he stepped up the hallway.

"Jammes, please, I need to change," Christine hissed, but the young girl didn't hear, and Erik stepped into the doorway.

"Ah. I take it you'll be dressing before breakfast?" he questioned in surprise, upon seeing her clad only in a small towel.

"So much for not entering a lady's room without permission!" she huffed, immediately ducking back into the bathroom. She heard Erik snigger, which only filled her with anger.

"Jammes, in the future, please take note of Mademoiselle's attire, and whether or not it is appropriate to leave the bedroom door open when your Mistress is wearing nothing but a towel," he advised.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Master!"

"Quite alright, Jammes, but in the future, bear it in mind," he added. Christine waited until he declared he was leaving before slipping out of the bathroom.

"I'm _so_ sorry, Mistress, I completely forgot," Jammes gushed immediately.

"It's okay, Jammes, no harm done," Christine assured her weakly, opening her wardrobe and stepping in to change for the day ahead.

She made care to close the door after her that time.

* * *

Erik slammed the door to his personal chambers shut in haste, running a hand through his dark hair wildly. His heart was racing a million miles an hour, his blood rushing in his veins, the image of Christine, clothed in nothing but a tiny little towel, water dripping from long locks, lashes and limbs, emblazoned in his mind as if someone had tattooed the image to his eyes.

It had been a very long time since he'd felt feelings for a woman, but what he was feeling at that moment was a hundred times more intense than what he'd ever felt before.

He attempted to calm his racing heart by rationing his breaths, trying to think of anything, _anything_ to get the image of Christine, dripping wet from the shower from his mind.

"Damn you, woman," he muttered beneath his breath in anger. "_Damn_ you," he repeated.

_And damn you, Charles Daaé_, he added in his mind, _for giving me this job! You didn't tell me how difficult it was going to be_!

* * *

Christine dressed hastily in a white boat-collar frock and took her crutches, hobbling downstairs, knowing she was probably going to be late for breakfast, if Erik was already dressed when he stepped into her room. She found him in his usual position, seated at the head of the table with a cup of tea and a copy of the day's paper.

"Good morning, Erik," she greeted with a slight blush. He didn't look up from his paper.

"Good morning, Christine," he greeted, turning the page in a perfectly nonchalant manner. "Drink plenty of tea this morning, Christine, we'll be going up to the music room in an hour or so, and I want you warmed up," he instructed.

"Warmed up? Do you mean to sing?" she questioned in surprise.

"No, I thought we might go for a run, Christine," he retorted sarcastically. She scowled.

"I told you that I don't want to sing," she reminded him. He finally raised his eyes.

"You will sing for me, Christine," he assured her. She didn't reply, only sipped her tea with a petulant scowl.

Truth be told, she _did_ miss singing. She used to have lessons several times a week when she was younger, and up until the age of fourteen she was practising intensely every day. But after the death of her father, music had become too much of a reminder of him. She couldn't bring herself to sing again, it would be too painful for her.

Nevertheless, she followed Erik upstairs and down the hall to the music room. She was curious to see it, and even if she didn't think she would be singing, she _did_ still want to hear him play, particularly after Jammes assured her of his talent.

"Oh my God. This is incredible!" she gasped as they stepped into a large circular room that was part of one of the towers. She instantly knew it would be her favourite in the entire castle. There were instruments of every kind in there, a grand piano, a full-sized keyboard, several guitars, a violin, a cello, a viola, a double bass, a flute, a clarinet, even an oboe! She saw an organ and a drum kit and a mandolin, a harp and a saxophone and a trumpet – she could hardly _imagine_ a more wonderful place! The shelves were lined with mounted instruments and books filled with sheet music for every instrument imaginable, it was a paradise!

"So you like it?" he questioned.

"_Like_ it? This is the most beautiful room I've ever been in!" she cried.

"Good. Because we'll be spending a great deal of time in it," he assured her, crossing the room to the piano. "Now we'll begin with some scales, just a D major, I think. We'll start from a D3, and see if we can get up to a D6 today," he began.

"I told you, I'm not singing," she reminded him. He rolled his pale eyes.

"Christine, _sing_."

"I – I haven't sung in three years!" she cried.

"Of which I'm aware. I won't judge you if you're a little rusty, I fully anticipate you needing to work to get up to your usual levels of skill. But I'm prepared to work for that," he stated calmly. Christine opened her mouth to object again, but he pressed down at the piano and played a low D, and before she knew it, she was tuning into the note.

It felt unusual to sing after so long a time. It was just a little bit unfamiliar to her, but at the same time, it was so _very_ familiar. She was flooded with a sense of déjà vu and nostalgia, happy memories of singing with her father around the piano in her old home, but also a terrible sadness. The last time she had sung it had been with her father next to her, not some strange kidnapper she barely knew.

"Good, but control your breathing. You've forgotten how to use your diaphragm," he said calmly by the time they had ascended an octave.

"I don't want to. I – I can't anymore," she insisted. Her voice felt rasping and weak, and she didn't have nearly as much volume as she once had.

"You have the ability to sing, Christine, you simply lack the _will_. Let us continue," he snapped, turning back to the piano. Christine scowled, sighed, and they begun again.

It took an hour to ascend three octaves, and even then, her voice was wispy, weak and off-key.

"I told you," she muttered ashamedly. "I can't sing anymore. I'm just – I'm no good now. You might as well throw me off the balcony, I'm never going to be able to sing like I used to," she insisted.

"I heard you when you were younger. You've not lost the skill you had, and you've certainly not lost the talent, it will just take a while for you to remember it. We cannot rush these things," he objected. Christine was about to request that they take a break, thinking that the 'lesson' might be over, but he had no intention of stopping. "Now. We'll attempt that D scale again, only this time with a few vocal exercises. Hurry up, prepare yourself," he commanded.

"I'm tired."

"A few more exercises and we'll stop. Another fifteen minutes, Christine," he requested, waving her objections of. She sighed, but finally consented, and continued to sing.

Two hours later they had not finished, and Christine was starting to get hungry. She'd requested they finish a few times, but he snapped at her and only pushed her further. She was too scared to question him again.

"Master! Mistress! _There _you are, lunch is ready! I've been waiting for you two!" Madame Sorelli scolded as she burst into the room. "Now Master, young Mademoiselle Christine needs her rest, and you've been practising for three hours. She must be dead on her feet," she said with annoyance. Erik rolled his dark eyes as he closed the piano.

"We've not been in here for – oh," he muttered in surprise, glancing at the clock with a slight frown. "Hmm. We have. Well, child, we'll take a break and return to practise," he decided.

"I'm _tired_, Erik! I can't handle anymore today, my throat is too sore," she complained in slight pain. Erik looked annoyed, but finally nodded.

"Fine. You may rest this afternoon, but we'll continue tomorrow," he insisted. Christine sighed in relief, before thanking Madame Sorelli and hobbling out of the room on her crutches.

"I'm very amazed, master," Sorelli commented when the mistress had left the room whilst Erik glanced over a few pieces of score that he wanted to practise with Christine.

"And what has caused your amazement, Madame Sorelli?" he questioned, taking little notice of the woman.

"Were it anyone but Mademoiselle Daaé who was complaining, I don't think you would have finished the lesson until it was dark," she exclaimed with slight laughter in her voice. Erik lowered the sheet of music he was examining slowly. By the time he was able to respond, Madame Sorelli had already bustled out of the room.

She was _right_. It was not in his practise to let anyone have their way but himself, and yet he'd granted Christine's wishes with nothing more that a slight twinge of annoyance! Was he losing his grip, or did she just have him twisted around her little finger already?

Whatever it was, it was a cause for some concern. If he were honest with himself, when he looked into those big dark eyes, he knew he couldn't deny her a single thing, which was a dangerous position to be in. He needed to regain control.

And when he wanted control, there was usually one method that stuck out above all.

Erik stayed in his music room until quite early in the morning, not even leaving for a cup of tea. Music sustained him in a manner that food or sleep never could – it was all he needed to survive. By three AM he had penned a song that he was confident would bring Christine back into his control, and return the balance of their relationship. _He _was the one that was in charge, not she.

He sighed as he finally scribbled down the last note on a sheet of manuscript paper, completing what was the first work he had composed since Christine came to his home. With a small grin, he returned to the first page and stared in pride at the music before him, completing his piece with the title on the top corner in his measured, elegant hand.

'THE MUSIC OF THE NIGHT'

**A/N: So, some people have been a bit annoyed that Christine hasn't given into Erik and gotten over the kidnapping thing. I don't write weak, Mary Sue Christines, I give her a bit more of a backbone. I think she's a better character that way. So, please review!**


	7. The Music Lesson

When Christine awoke the next morning, she felt as miserable as the heavy clouds outside her window, and had very little intention of singing that day.

"Well I'll tell him I'm sick. I don't care," she declared, when Jammes exclaimed that she was sure to cause a riot of she didn't sing when the master commanded her to as the young woman ran her a bath.

"He won't like that, Mistress. You'll be in _awful_ trouble," she threatened.

"Jammes, Erik needs to learn that I'm not some pet he can order around. I'll do as I wish in my prison, and he needs to deal with that," she decided simply. Jammes gave a nervous giggle.

"Oh, Mistress, you'll be in _such_ trouble, but it still sounds like so much _fun_! You're much braver than I am," she assured her.

"Jammes, you're plenty brave. You mustn't be so critical of yourself. Erik is just a bully, and bullies need to have someone tap them on the shoulder and tell them to stop," she decided firmly.

Feeling very confident with herself, Christine changed into an oversized grey jumper that overtook almost her whole body and a pair of black tights, dressing how she felt. When it rained she tended to bundle up and wear dark colours. The weather majorly affected her moods.

"Good morning, Christine," Erik greeted when she stepped into the breakfast room, once more with the assistance of her crutches.

"Good morning, Erik," she replied, noting that he looked a little less composed that morning than usual, as if he hadn't received much sleep. "Did you... uh, rest well?" she questioned, knowing that the answer would probably be 'no'.

"I slept perfectly fine, child. Now eat your breakfast. We shall be returning to the music room for another lesson once you've finished," he informed her, turning a page in his paper with a nonchalant air. Christine took a deep breath before speaking.

"Erik, I don't feel like singing today. I'd rather not," she said firmly. He raised his eyes to meet hers momentarily.

"Too bad. I can entertain you until you feel a little better, but you will be singing this morning, Christine," he assured her. She scowled.

"You aren't the boss of _me_," she said petulantly. He chuckled.

"Good _Lord_, you're ridiculous. Yes, Christine, I am. This is my home, and my rules are the ones you will abide by. I can play for you if you would like for a little while, but we will be singing, so drink your tea," he commanded. His tone went from playful to almost frightening.

Christine's heart deflated. She wasn't in charge any longer, and she knew it. She scowled at her crêpes, pushing a strawberry around her plate in annoyance. She was determined not to let him keep the upper hand.

"You'll play for me?"

"Yes, Christine, if you wish," he replied simply. Her frown lessoned slightly. She _was_ curious to hear him play, after all...

After breakfast they moved to the music room, and Erik seated himself at the piano. Christine went to one of the walls, which were covered almost completely in books of sheet music. She finally selected a book of Chopin, and presented it to him.

"I like his etudes. Can you play those?" she questioned as he glanced at the title.

"A child could, Christine, but they will serve as reasonable warm-ups," he commented, placing the book on the music stand. He glanced over each bar of the first piece he opened to, before placing his hands on the piano, and beginning to play.

Christine was rather surprised. He didn't even need to read the sheet music and he could just... play! And perfectly! It was clear that Chopin was nothing compared to his skill. She watched his fingers from the chair by the piano with curiosity and awe. He played with amazing fluidness... it was incredible.

When the short piece ended, he shut the book and returned it to the shelf. When he turned back to the piano, he couldn't help but smile. She had in her hands the song he had written the night before, and was looking at it in curiosity. It couldn't have been easier.

"What's this?" she questioned curiously.

"Nothing. Just a simple piece," he shrugged, returning to the piano, pretending he didn't want to speak of it. She frowned slightly.

"You wrote it yourself. Play it for me," she demanded, placing it on the music stand.

"Christine, it's just a trifling little song. It's not worth looking at," he said simply. Christine's eyes narrowed in determination.

"Play it for me," she insisted, her tone firm. Erik pretended to sigh in exasperation.

"I will not deny you this, but you must learn to say 'please' and 'thank you'. You had such lovely manners as a child," he commented, as if disappointed in her. His remark actually seemed to strike a slight nerve. He knew she wasn't rude or vain; she was just confused on how to act around him. She was very sweet to Jammes and Madame Sorelli. He didn't want to admit that perhaps he was a little jealous that he didn't get to indulge in her sweetness like his staff did.

"I'm sorry," she muttered quietly.

"Good. And now I will play for you," he declared, settling his fingers at the piano. First he played a small prelude, knowing it would capture her attention and keep her fixed throughout the song.

"_I have brought you, to the seat of sweet __music's__ throne,_

_To this kingdom where all must pay homage to music, music...  
You have come here, for one purpose and one alone,  
Since the moment I first heard you sing,  
I have needed you with me, to serve me, to sing,  
for my music, my music..._"

Christine's entire body froze, and tingles ran up her spine. She could physically feel the hairs on her arm stand up, and her blood rushing. It was indescribable. His voice was the most incredible thing she had ever heard, it was harshness and softness all in one, it was so pure and yet so... so dark! She immediately felt drunk on the sound of his voice, and felt all around her go hazy. She – she couldn't understand what was happening. How could his voice have such an effect on her?

"_Night-time sharpens, heightens each sensation,  
Darkness stirs, and wakes imagination  
Silently the senses, abandon their defences,"_

The song settled into a beautiful and hypnotising melody that made all rational thought disappear from Christine's mind. She simply soaked up the brilliance of his words.

"_Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendour,  
Grasp it, sense it - tremulous and tender  
Turn your face away, from the garish light of day,  
Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light -  
And listen to the music of the night_

_Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams,  
Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before  
Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar...  
And you'll live, as you've never lived before_,"

She felt her eyes closing as he sung the words, and all thoughts of anything that had existed before the glorious sound that came from his lips some sort of distant memory that she could hardly recall. She was floating on some foreign place where only his voice existed.

"_Softly, deftly, music shall caress you,  
Hear it, feel it, secretly possess you,_

_Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind,  
In this darkness which you know you cannot fight -  
The darkness of the music of the night_

_Let your mind start a journey to a strange new world,  
Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before,  
Let your soul take you where you long to be...  
Only then, can you belong to me..._"

She tingled with some unknown emotion when he sung of 'caresses', 'fantasies' and the undefeatable 'darkness'. He was right. She couldn't fight the strange sensations that were filling her, yet she knew they were wrong. She knew it was a darkness she should not indulge in, and yet... she was so far past being able to chastise herself for being drawn in so. Somehow she knew, when he sung the words 'you belong to me' that he was _right_. When he sung she was no longer a creature of independence, she was his pet and could be commanded at will. She should have felt ashamed at herself, but strangely... she just _didn't_.

"_Floating, falling, sweet intoxication,  
Touch me, trust me, savour each sensation  
Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in,  
To the power of the music that I write,  
The power of the music of the night..._"

She trembled visibly when he finished. She felt dizzy and lightheaded, her eyes were unfocused and she was fairly certain that her breathing was a little shallower than usual.

"You – erm, you have a very – a _very_ good voice," she muttered pathetically, blinking herself back into consciousness. Erik hid a smug; she had reacted just as he hoped.

"And now you will sing for me," he said calmly, his voice measured and still holding its hypnotising quality. Christine, still in a daze, found herself nodding. "Stand up, Christine," he commanded, and she did so. "Now, we will warm up," he continued, running notes up the scale as Christine harmonised with them.

She sung a great deal better than the day before, but still nowhere near to her usual levels of skill. She didn't really think about what she was doing, her mind was still flooded with the sensation of his voice around her. They ascended three octaves before Erik decided she was adequately warmed up.

"Now, my dear, we will sing a song. This is an aria I composed a while ago. I will play it twice through, just the piano, the first will be the melody, and the second the accompaniment, and you will listen. When I play a third time, you will sing. Do you understand?" he instructed, once more using his voice to control her. He knew he shouldn't – his power of the voice was one that he practised rarely. But he had an unquenchable desire to command her.

He played the song once through with just the melody, and heard her humming along as best she could, predicting the notes he would play, however, he threw her off once or twice with key changes, and finally the last piece of vocal gymnastics at the end of the piece. She blinked in confusion and slight anxiety, peering over her copy of the sheet music, before nodding, as he played the accompaniment. She hummed along with the melody line to herself, occasionally mumbling words to see how they fitted into the piece. She sighed finally when he completed the song.

"I – I don't know if I can do this," she confessed.

"Of course you can. And you will," he practically snapped. Having forgotten to use his commanding and hypnotising tone, she was able to object.

"But Erik, it's..."

"I shall have no more complaints, Christine. You will sing it," he directed calmly, his tone direct and firm. She chewed her bottom lip slightly – a habit that he found most appealing, however distracting – and finally nodded.

"I'll try. But I probably won't sound good at all," she assured him. He shrugged, and turned back to the piano, playing the introduction, ignoring her protests.

"_Think of me, think of me fondly,  
When we've said goodbye  
Remember me, once in a while,  
Please promise me you'll try_

_When you –_"

Christine winced as Erik stopped playing with a discordant clash of notes. He turned to her with a scowl on his handsome face.

"I'm curious, child, are you trying at _all_, or is that your best effort and you're merely simpleton?" he questioned with great agitation.

"I'm sorry, it's just that I don't know the song," she defended.

"Well that's not good enough! I _know_ you don't know the song, but I expect you to sing it anyway, and I will correct you if necessary. I cannot hear you over the piano, and the few wisps of sound I _do_ catch are weak murmurs!" he snapped. "This song is designed for a woman singing to her lover, Christine. You cannot simply _sing it_ in the same way you would speak about the weather. You have to _feel_ it," he explained with agitation.

Christine's cheeks blushed with shame. She _knew_ that she wasn't trying well enough, she could barely hear herself! She felt ridiculous, what was she even doing? It was clear she couldn't sing the song, and a man as talented as Erik could see it too. She felt helpless, because for the first time in years she truly did _want_ to sing, but she was unable to. It was as if she had lost the use of her legs, and was now attempting to walk. She couldn't but she desperately wanted to.

"I – I'm sorry," she stammered weakly, feeling the strain of the past few days building up inside of her. It was so difficult to sing again, to be haunted by the memories of why she _stopped_ singing, and to know that no matter how hard she tried, she simply couldn't do it! She felt tears well up in her eyes and brushed them away with shame. The last time she had cried before coming to Erik's castle was when her father had died! Usually, she was so resistant, and determined to start her life anew. Nothing could stop her, but all of a sudden she felt like she was falling apart! "I – I'm _trying_, but I just can't –" she stopped, unable to continue her explanation as a sob overcame her.

She turned away, so he could not see her face, and quietly wept, hugging herself with frail arms, wishing she had someone, _anyone_ who could hold her and make her feel better. She heard Erik sigh behind her.

He was instantly flooded with guilt. He felt like he had pushed her much too quickly, and had abused her vulnerable state. His desire to control her had overtaken his rationality, he was expecting too much from the poor girl.

"It's alright. We'll try again tomorrow," he said softly, rising from his chair and holding her gently from behind. She allowed her cries to become audible, knowing he would not chastise her for them. He softly ran his hand over her shoulder in a comforting motion, enjoying their closeness more than he would like to admit to himself.

"I want to. I _really_ do. I've missed it so much but I – it just _hurts_, to be reminded of him, and to be so... so _terrible_ at it. I didn't always sound this bad, a – and I feel so helpless now that I can't do the one thing I was good at," she confessed brokenly. He gently shushed her.

"You're good at many things, Christine. And we will improve your voice. It'll take time to repair the damage that has been done, but it _can_ be done," he assured her. "As you obviously do not feel up to singing today, we shall play a little piano. You used to play, have you had any practise recently?" he questioned, reluctantly stepping away from her.

"Sometimes, when Carlotta and Ubaldo are out and the boys are asleep upstairs I would practise on the piano in the living room, but it's been a few months since I last had the chance, and I never had any sheet music. Carlotta only kept it to warm up before rehearsals," she explained.

"How competent would you say you are then?"

"Umm, I don't really know. Mostly I make up music because I don't have any to learn," she admitted.

"A simple piece then, Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. You know it, I trust?" he questioned, selecting a piece from his wide collection. She nodded, and glanced over the music he had handed to her. "Good. Today I will teach you this," he declared, sitting down on the piano stool, and shifting over so there was a place for her. He put the sheet music up on the stand, and quickly ran up the scale of notes they would be using.

The next few hours were spent slowly recalling Christine's long-forgotten piano lessons as she stumbled through the piece. She'd not played in so long, but it was a beautiful song and relatively simple. She felt somewhat pathetic when she hit the wrong note or when her fingering was less than perfect, but Erik would gently correct and guide her. He was much less stern than before, as if he had discovered the best manner of teaching his pupil.

"Now play it through once more from the beginning. I think you've got it," he commanded finally, flicking back to the first page of music. Christine kept her eyes glued to the sheets as she played, her brow furrowed slightly in concentration. She bit her lip when her finger slipped, but continued on with determination.

Erik gave a small smile as he watched his young student play. Her main instrument would of course be her voice, but it was good for her to learn at least a little of the piano. He next planned on teaching her the violin; but it was her singing that he craved to work on.

"That was good, my dear. You've made excellent progress in only a few hours," he praised when she had finally finished. She gave a relieved sigh, her eyes sparkling with self-pride. She had played the piece, not perfectly but at least well, proof that she _wasn't_ useless at all.

"Thank you, Erik. I feel I can do anything now," she laughed happily, bounding up from the chair to rifle through his vast collection of music eagerly.

"Mmm. Perhaps, but I think that is enough for today. I shall commission a piano for your personal use to go in your parlour, I think. It would be good practise for you," he commented, rising from his chair, and returning the book to its place on the shelf.

"Can't we play some more?" she questioned petulantly. He chuckled.

"We can _sing_, Christine, if you would like, but we won't play piano today. Perhaps I should find a simpler piece for you to sing and we may make a second attempt," he offered. Christine looked somewhat disappointed (and ashamed) to think that she couldn't sing the piece he had first chosen, but nodded.

"We could sing this one. I love this arrangement, but it's not very popular," she commented, pulling forth a copy of Philippe Rombi's arrangement of 'Ave Maria'. He chuckled.

"I too enjoy that arrangement, however, my child, I would rather we waited a while to sing this. I don't want to damage your vocal chords by attempting such a piece," he replied, gently taking the sheets from her hand. She gave a petulant frown. "Soon, Christine, we will play this. But give yourself time," he requested gently. She sighed, and nodded in agreement.

"Wellllllllll, we could sing something simple, like 'Amazing Grace'," she offered.

"A little _too_ simple for my liking, but it will serve for now. Perhaps if we alter the key so it's a little higher we will have more success," he offered, moving to the piano. "I trust you know the words?" he questioned, to which she nodded. "Good. Then these are the notes –" he said, playing the notes they would be using, before she nodded, and he began to play the accompaniment.

"_Amazing grace, how sweet the sound,_

_That saved a wretch like me!_

_I once was lost, but now am found,_

_Was blind, but now I see,"_

She instantly felt much happier. The song was indeed simple, but it was a relief to know she could finally sing something without her voice failing her! She did not, of course, sing it perfectly, but she could hit the notes and her transitioning was not terrible. Her projection needed work, but that would come with time. When the piece finished, she gave a long sigh of relief and weariness.

"Good. We're making progress. We will attempt this again soon, and perhaps a few more simple pieces, and then see how far your range can go at the moment. We've gotten three octaves, but I full expect a good four without strain," he declared.

"I can still harmonise with a boiling kettle, I do it to frighten Angelo when he's been bad," she laughed. He gave a small smile, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Replicating a whistle with your voice is not singing, my dear. I want you to be able to sing, form words and lyrics up until a C7," he decided. The laughter died from her eyes.

"Erik, I don't even think that's possible. I can make _noise_ at a note that high, but I cannot _sing_," she informed him seriously.

"You have the potential, and it's not unheard of. Perhaps for now we will focus on the lower octaves, but by the end of this month I would like a strong G6 from you, my dear," he said sternly. She rolled her dark eyes.

"You can _try_," she teased laughingly, glancing to the clock. "Oh, it's time for lunch. I hadn't even noticed," she murmured in surprise.

"I think we'll call it a day for your singing, Christine. We will commence again on Wednesday," he informed her.

"But today is Monday. Can't we sing again tomorrow?" she exclaimed with a frown. He inwardly smiled at her impatience.

"I need to commission a piano for your apartment, Christine, and the only man I trust to do the job is too far from here for an afternoon trip. I would rather see him in person, and see what he has in stock than speak to him over the phone or email," he replied simply. She nodded, trying not to look disappointed. "But, whilst I'm not here, you may spend all day in this room if you would like. I only ask that you don't strain your voice when I'm gone, as I will expect it ready for practise the day after tomorrow," he informed her. She brightened immediately.

"I can play the piano?"

"Yes, you may. Just as long as Madame Sorelli or Jammes knows where you are at all times. I would prefer if Jammes remained with you whilst I am gone, and if you are to stay in this room she can bring some of her school books with her. She's quite neglected them in the excitement of having a new face to talk to," he replied, his eyes dancing with amusement.

"She told me she goes to school in the village," Christine commented. Erik nodded.

"Most of the year. I've offered to send her to a boarding school, but the child will have none of it."

"She also said both her parents passed away when she was very young," she probed. He nodded once more.

"I'd never met them when she came to live here. Her Aunt begged me to take her in, or else she would be placed in foster care, and I felt it necessary to lend some assistance," he informed her simply.

"So... you're in the habit of taking orphans into your care?" she questioned with a raised brow. He frowned slightly.

"Why do you always have to ask questions, child? Can't you be content in knowing that you're safe and well-taken care of? What more do you require?" he snapped with agitation.

"I want to know about the man who has taken me into his home. I... I don't think – I _know_ you're not going to hurt me, so I don't know why else I could be here. I think the only possible way I'll ever be able to understand is if I know who you really are," she muttered simply. She realised her mistake just as soon as the words left her mouth, and Jammes' warning swum back to her consciousness.

'_If you intend on knowing the Master, you must never ask him about his mask, how he got his money, and what he is doing here, so far from wherever he came from... I can only imagine what he would do if you ever asked those questions, or if you ever found out the answers...'_

But it was what Jammes had added to the end of her warning that Christine was concerned about. The thing Jammes said was the most important of all.

'_You must never, ever, ever ask the Master who he really is...'_

"I am Erik, I am the man who rescued you from a life of misery and is now merely trying to ensure you are content. That's all you need to know," he snapped, rising from his chair. Christine lowered her eyes in slight shame and disappointment. "I'll see you at dinner," he muttered, before practically storming from the room.

"Well I'm Christine, the girl you stole from the only life she had and is merely doing her best to understand why," she muttered beneath her breath, before sighing, and sitting in front of the piano with a miserable expression.

She had a sinking feeling that she would _never_ come to know the truth of who Erik really was.

She only wished that her father had made the correct decision in making a deal with her masked captor, and hadn't ensured a complete loss of freedom for his daughter.

**A/N: This is an important chapter as it marks Christine's changing attitude towards Erik from fear and hatred to curiosity. Hope you liked it, please, pretty please review!**


	8. The Second Attempt

The next morning Christine ate her breakfast alone in the suddenly incredibly large room, sipping her chocolate in silence and finding herself, quite strangely, longing for Erik's company. She sighed miserably several times, staring out the window to the dark skies that loomed over. She pushed her tartine around her plate mindlessly, wishing that she at least had his company to keep herself busy.

Deciding to find other occupation for herself, she spent most of the day exploring the house. After a late lunch, she finally decided that she'd seen enough of the interior of the house, and dressed as warmly as she could before taking a tentative step into the courtyard, Jammes trailing anxiously behind her.

"Oh, Mistress, you'll catch a cold! Master will be _so_ angry!" she insisted petulantly. Christine laughed.

"Jammes, I'm not standing in the rain, I'm just getting a little air," she insisted, walking around in the sheltered section. The rain poured heavily onto the pond, almost making it overflow, but she didn't care. She'd left her shoes upstairs for that very reason – she loved the rain, despite the state of acedia it sent her into, and feeling the cold water on her toes was like a dream come true for her still-sore feet. She sighed happily, dipping a toe into the surface of the pond.

"Mistress, you really mustn't," Jammes interjected.

"You don't need to watch me if you don't want to. I couldn't go anywhere if I wanted to," she reminded her, holding a single crutch up as if in explanation. Jammes nervously chewed her bottom lip. "Jammes, I still can't even walk properly, and those walls are far too high, even if I weren't a cripple," she said simply. "Go inside, you're cold, and I've been dragging you around all day. Please, you enjoy the rest of your afternoon," she urged her.

"Well... alright, Mistress Christine, but _please_ don't leave," she begged. Christine gave a small, guilty smile.

"Jammes, go inside. You're freezing. I shouldn't be too long," she replied simply, turning back to the pond. Jammes finally nodded, and left the courtyard in favour of a warm kitchen. Christine gave a deep sigh, and glanced around her. She didn't have her ballet bag with her – but there was no time to go back and fetch it. She would simply have to walk to the nearest village and beg for some money to call Raoul on a payphone. Taking a determined breath, she steadied herself and gripped tightly to her crutches.

The rain was freezing – a cold shock, but also a relief. She hobbled up the stone steps and through the garden, her crutches spelching against the damp moss and grass, headed straight for the large oak by a wall. With shaking hands, she let the crutches fall from her hands, and raised them to press against the trunk of the tree, before gripping on a knot in the bark and pulling herself up with as much force as she could.

* * *

"I must say, you're certainly my best customer," Moreau, a wizened old instrument dealer commented as his familiar and unusual patron strolled through his showroom.

"I require another piano. A baby grand, I think," he said thoughtfully.

"I just got in a new Steinway, it has a very bright tone, monsieur, and I know how you favour the make. It's a beautiful instrument," he commented eagerly, following his customer around the room, which was completely filled with instruments of different sizes, shapes, colours and sounds.

"No. It's not for me, it's for my... ward," he replied with slight hesitation. Moreau's brows rose in surprise, but Erik ignored his shock. "I think she would favour something... softer. I wanted something commissioned, I'm not looking at purchasing a completely unoriginal instrument," he added.

"Oh. Uh, well, tell me about your ward, monsieur. I need to know what she's like before I craft an instrument for her, you see," he explained, after noting Erik's slight frown. From his lips his eyes flickered up to the white mask, but only for a moment. He knew not to question his customer's appearance – it only served to lose business.

"Her name is Christine. She's seventeen, Swiss born, uhh, stubborn, irritating, tempestuous, clever, talented and naïve. She's also brilliant, loving and warm. She's a singer for the most part, but I would like for her to have an instrument for her personal use," he explained. Moreau nodded thoughtfully, stroking his white beard and humming.

"Of course. And her voice?"

"When properly trained, it's probably the most incredible voice I've ever heard on a female. She's a soprano, a very bright tone, but also capable of something a bit more mellow," he answered, inspecting a harpsichord with vague curiosity.

"Any preference for design?"

"White, I think. Something classic but elegant, I'd like something a little ornate, perhaps slightly Rococo, but for the most part, elegance," he replied with a slight shrug.

"And a price limit?"

"You know I don't believe in those, Moreau. I'll pay whatever you see fit," he waved him off simply. Moreau nodded eagerly.

"Oh yes, monsieur. And I'll get started right away – give me a month and you'll have your piano," he promised. Erik turned to face the gentleman and nodded, reaching into his overcoat pocket.

"That should be a reasonable deposit, I'll pay you the rest when it's completed," he informed him, passing over a wad of crisp Euros. Moreau's eyes went wide as he counted them – it was enough to pay for the entire commission, let alone just the _deposit_!

"Thank you, monsieur, thank you _very_ much. Your patronage is always appreciated," he murmured, head bowed.

"I only come here because of your skill, Moreau, not because of your gratitude," he threw back in slight annoyance, glancing at his pocket watch. He needed to leave if he intended on eating dinner with Christine. If he hurried, he would hopefully return before dark. "I must leave. I'm holding you to your promise – in a month I want that piano in Christine's room," he said firmly, to which Moreau nodded firmly. "Well then, I shall see you in a month. Good day, sir," he said simply, leaving the shop before Moreau could even utter another statement of gratitude.

The drive out of Paris was a long and boring one – made tedious by Erik's eagerness to see Christine. He hated spending so much time away from her – even a day seemed impossible! He knew he was becoming far too attached to her, but he couldn't help but eagerly anticipate spending the evening with her. Perhaps he would suggest they read together in his study before the fire, and she would fall asleep like she did that day in the library... he would then be able to carry her upstairs and bestow another kiss on her forehead – or maybe even her lips – before putting her to bed. His blood boiled at that prospect – thinking how easy it would be to simply take her into his personal chambers and let nature take its course.

He laughed at his own stupidity, very glad that he hadn't allowed his driver to make the trip for him so his concentration could be fixed back to the road. He enjoyed driving alone, it gave him time to think, only his thoughts weren't consumed with music as they usually were, they were consumed with Christine and Christine alone.

He checked his pocket watch as he finally drove his dark Bentley into the garage. It was reasonably late, too late for lunch but too early for dinner, but he intended on seeking Christine out, perhaps for a music lesson before dinner.

"Ah, Madame Sorelli. Have you seen Christine?" he questioned when his housekeeper bustled past him, deep in conversation with the cook.

"Oh, no, Master, but she's been with Jammes all day," the woman replied, turning her head upwards as Erik ascended the steps from the garage into the main house.

"Jammes is sitting in front of the oven in the kitchen, Master, if you're looking for her," the cook threw in. Erik nodded, and headed off to the kitchens. He picked up an apple from a basket by the door, realising that he'd not eaten all day. He often had to remind himself to eat – he was always too consumed with his thoughts to really take food into consideration.

"There you are, Jammes. Is Mademoiselle Christine in her room?" he questioned, upon discovering Jammes nestled in front of the wood fire oven with a book in her hands.

"Oh, I don't think so, Master. She was out in the courtyard when I saw her last. I think the cold water from the rain is helping her feet," she replied diligently. Erik lowered his apple, fear suddenly gripping him.

"Jammes," he began as calmly as he could. "Are you telling me that Christine is outside, unaccompanied, in the middle of a rainstorm?" he asked, his voice shaking somewhat. Jammes blinked slowly, her jaw falling.

"Oh, Master, I'm so sorry!" she cried suddenly, realising her error. Dropping his apple he stormed out of the kitchen in haste, practically sprinting down the hall and throwing open the French doors to the courtyard.

On first glance it appeared empty – so he narrowed his eyes and scanned the garden for her form hastily, running up the stairs to allow him better vision. He spotted her by the old oak against one of the tall stone walls, sitting atop a heavy bough and attempting to crawl to the end, which reached over the wall.

"And _what_ do you think you're doing?" he called out, unable to hide the anger from his voice. She looked down to see him standing beneath her with complete surprise, her eyes widening and her mouth falling. She immediately gripped to the tree.

"If you make me fall I'll die! You have to let me go, Monsieur, you have no other choice!" she cried in firm response, continuing her unsteady course.

"You do realise that the only way over that wall is by jumping from this branch, which will kill you regardless?" he questioned with annoyance. She bit her lip thoughtfully. Erik gave a frustrated mutter and raised his hand, gripping her ankle and pulling her out of the tree with a firm yank. She cried out in fear before he caught her in his arms, just missing her elbow colliding with his eye.

"You could have killed me," she muttered bitterly.

"You could have killed yourself," he retorted simply. "_What_ are you playing at, Christine? This is the stupidest idea you've had yet! Whatever possessed you to attempt escape in such weather?" he questioned angrily. She lowered her dark eyes, refusing to meet his gaze.

"I just came out for the rain. I like the feeling of water on my face. Is that so bad?" she asked petulantly.

"Then stand under the shower," he snapped. She sighed with agitation.

"It's not the _same_! And maybe I should have attempted something different in terms of escape, but what else could I do? I didn't exactly have a ladder," she retorted in annoyance. "I didn't come out here to escape! I had the opportunity, and I took it. It's that simple," she added finally. Erik muttered something beneath his breath in a language she didn't understand, and tightened his grip on her, moving to make his way out of the rain.

"You're even more foolish than I thought. You'll catch your death," he informed her rather indelicately, stepping back into the courtyard.

"No. I don't want to go inside. I want to stay here for a while," she insisted.

"Christine, you're drenched to the bone. Come inside and change out of these wet clothes," he insisted wearily. She shook her head.

"It's only cold when I'm _out_ of the rain. It was fine before," she stated, her cheeks turning pink with the chill.

"Perhaps I should just throw you in the pond," Erik muttered with a roll of his pale eyes.

"Well maybe you should," she retorted petulantly.

With a small smirk, Erik stepped towards the pond, and before she could shout out an objection, jumped in with Christine in his arms.

"_Erik_!" she cried angrily, splashing helplessly when her head broke the surface.

"Yes, Christine?" he questioned innocently, delighting in the incredible spark in her dark eyes.

"You – you _idiot!_ Why would you do that?" she practically screamed, feeling the chill run through her whole body as the icy water surrounded her.

"Because I thought you needed it," he retorted simply, lazily swimming towards her. She scowled, her damp hair clinging to her face.

"I hate you," she muttered petulantly. He sniggered.

"Hmm. Understandable," he shrugged, stopping when he was treading water right before her. "Had enough yet?" he questioned.

"No. No, I think this is just _lovely_," she drawled sarcastically. Erik smirked – inwardly proud that she wasn't giving up without a fight. He swum over to the edge of the pond, and removed his watch, thankful that his wallet and mobile were in his coat, which he had hung up in the hallway before going to look for her. Christine did the same with the watch on her wrist – despite the fact that it was waterproof. He then pulled off his jacket, vest and shoes, until all he wore were his dark trousers and white Oxford shirt.

His breath caught when he saw Christine's eyes glued to his chest, which was obvious beneath his drenched white shirt. Her eyes were filled with an emotion he'd never seen before, but it thrilled him, driving him to completely remove his shirt and add it to the damp pile by the pool's edge, pretending her gaze wasn't affecting him in the least. She pulled her eyes away and scowled, as if at herself, before moving to take off the layers of warm clothing she had been wearing. Off went a jacket, jumper and cardigan till she wore nothing but a champagne coloured shift that hid nothing. She might as well have stripped down to her underclothes.

Lazily she began to swim around waterlilies and reeds, her dark eyes focusing on the pink flowers, rather than his form, going to great lengths not to look at him. His eyes remained glued to her, unmoving as he mirrored her movements to allow him the best view of her white shoulders and long brown locks that billowed around her like a noble mane.

"I know you're watching me. I'm not scared," she declared suddenly. He chuckled from across the pond.

"You have no reason to be scared," he said simply, pushing against the edge of the pool to come closer to her. She immediately went underwater, as if hiding from him. Taking a deep breath, he followed her lead, his eyes adjusting slowly to the murky water.

She looked like some sort of mythical creature, her skin glowing like something ethereal, her curls flowing around her, the silky shift she wore riding up over slender ivory thighs. He swum towards her, only to see that her eyes were closed – she was probably unable to adjust to the water. He realised with a start that it would be so easy to press his lips against hers, but resisted the urge, instead rising to break the surface with her.

She rubbed her eyes with slender fingers, blinking slowly to take in his face. His eyes locked with hers intensely, and he felt, rather than heard her obvious swallow. Before either of them knew what was happening, their faces were slowly drawing closer, until he could feel the warmth of her breath on his lips.

"Master! Mistress! _There_ you are!" came a shriek as Madame Sorelli bustled out into the courtyard, ruining the moment and separating the pair with a start. "Oh, you _must_ come in! You'll be simply drenched to the bone!" she wailed. Cursing beneath his breath, Erik swum to the edge.

"Sorry, Madame Sorelli. We forgot ourselves," he muttered, pulling himself out of the pool before turning to assist Christine. Ignoring his offered hand, she pulled herself out, and slipped her watch back onto her wrist. He placed his drenched shirt over her shoulders, but her eyes did not rise to meet his. She gathered up her heap of clothing, and attempted to rise to her feet. "Here. Let me help you," he insisted, pulling her up to her feet. She stood unsteadily, but was reasonably stable.

"I'll have Jammes run hot baths for you both before dinner. You're so _foolish_, the pair of you," she scolded.

"I'm sorry, Madame Sorelli," Christine muttered ashamedly.

"Come on. Let's get you warm," Erik decided, pulling her into his arms.

"I can walk," she scowled against his neck.

"Let's spare your feet the strain, shall we?" he suggested, before she wrapped an arm over his shoulder to secure herself.

"You don't have to. I'm not a complete invalid," she objected as they began to walk after Madame Sorelli, who was crying out for some member of staff to run a bath.

"That's an unusual way of saying 'thank you Erik, I appreciate the assistance'," he said sarcastically. Christine did not reply.

It wasn't until he deposited her into the bathtub in her bedroom that she finally spoke. She was by that stage trembling, her skin losing all colour, but she clearly looked relieved as the hot water that was slowly filling the tub sloshed around her thighs.

"Thank you, Erik. I appreciate the assistance," she muttered quietly, so quietly he wasn't sure if he'd heard her correctly. He turned back to face her with a small smile, before nodding, and leaving the room.

He sighed when he was out of earshot of her.

It was getting more and more difficult to stick to his resolve. Christine Daaé was sure to be the death of him.

* * *

"How is she?" Erik questioned Madame Sorelli a few hours later, after he'd treated himself to a soak in his personal bathroom and changed into a fresh change of clothes, his voice insistent and slightly worried.

"She's sleeping, Master. Poor thing, she's still so weak," the woman sighed when she passed him in the hall. "I don't know what Jammes was thinking, leaving her alone like that! I'll give her a firm talking to, don't you worry about _that_, Master!" she huffed.

"No, I want to speak to Jammes myself. I'm sorry if I'm interfering in your place as the girl's guardian, but –"

"No, Master, not at all. You've been nothing but good to her and she did a very silly thing to repay you. I understand," she assured him. He nodded, and continued his stride into Christine's bedroom.

He entered to see a nervous Jammes tidying the room as Christine slept, wrapped up in thick blankets and a heavy nightgown, her hair still damp. She looked pale and weary, but not especially ill. But still, his heart was racing and his blood boiling with the knowledge of how close he had come to losing her – he didn't doubt that she would have climbed to the other side of the wall, but he was almost certain she would have fallen to her death.

"Master, I want to apologise," Jammes muttered timidly, her eyes lowered whilst Erik sat on the edge of Christine's bed, his mouth drawn to a tight line.

"I specifically said to you Jammes that she is _never_ to be left alone. You gave me your word that you wouldn't let something like this happen," he said darkly, his voice radiating with anger, but he kept his tone as steady and calm as possible, as to not wake up Christine.

"I'm sorry, Master, but she told me to go inside and she said she wasn't going to try to run away, I didn't –"

"Did she say that she wasn't going to leave?" he questioned sharply. Jammes bit her lip.

"Uhh... well, not exactly," she murmured quietly.

"Let me guess, she made a few vague statements and you assumed that it would be fine to leave her, despite my instructions, and she would return without having attempted anything," he offered angrily. Jammes gave a small sniffle and nodded. "How could you be so – so _stupid_? She's only been here a month! I know you two are close now, but do you _really_ think that when given the opportunity, she wouldn't try to run?" he questioned incredulously. Jammes made a small sobbing noise.

"I'm sorry Master, I – I didn't think she'd go! I thought she wanted to stay," she explained weakly.

"It's too soon for that! It's too soon for you to trust her, Jammes, and you have to understand that!" he snapped. "Get out. I can't even look at you – just go to your room and think about what you've done to her! What you've done to _me_!" he practically roared. Jammes burst into tears and dashed out of the room as quickly as she could.

Erik sighed, running a hand through his dark hair, and turning his gaze to Christine, who still lay silent in her bed. He knew she would recover, but it was another setback. Another day where he would be unable to see her, to speak to her, to sing with her. He gave a frustrated grunt of impatience. He didn't want to share her with his staff, _he_ wanted to be the one looking after her when she fell ill! It wasn't fair that he had to wait even longer to secure her good opinion because of Jammes' stupid mistake!

A small voice in the back of his head made a comment about how it wasn't really Jammes' fault, and he was being too hard on her, but he ignored the voice. When it came to Christine he couldn't help but feel protective over her.

After sitting by her side for a good half hour, Erik finally rose from the bed with a reluctant sigh. His stomach rumbling in hunger, he decided it was time for something to eat.

He hated eating alone.

**A/N: I'm too tired to think of a decent author's note... so please, review! ^_^**


	9. The New Maid

When Christine awoke the next day, feeling somewhat ill but at least alive, she was surprised to find a woman never before seen opening her curtains and running the bath, activities that were normally performed by Jammes.

"Good morning, Mistress," the woman greeted diligently, pressing her hand to her forehead, before helping Christine out of bed, obviously determining that she hadn't a temperature.

"Uh, sorry, who are you?" she questioned with a slight frown as her dressing gown was slipped over her shoulders.

"I am Giselle, Mistress. I'm your new maid," she answered promptly.

"Oh. Um, what happened to Jammes?" she questioned with surprise.

"The Master felt that in light of yesterday's occurrences, it would be better if Jammes attended a different floor," she informed her. Christine frowned as she was practically carted into the bathroom.

"What do you mean? It wasn't Jammes fault, and nothing happened anyway," she defended as she was stripped by the older woman. Giselle had a fierce and dominant sort of aura about her; she wasn't soft and sweet like Jammes. There was something very severe and intimidating about her tight bun and heavily starched black working dress, with a small white apron tied about her waist.

"Jammes disobeyed the Master's orders by leaving you alone, and as a result, she was moved to the ground floor, Mistress. Now in the water you go," she commanded briskly, practically pushing Christine into the steaming bath. She resisted the urge to shriek pathetically as the woman reached for a jug of hot, soapy water to pour over her head, and a bottle of shampoo for her hair. She rubbed it into her locks with intense fierceness, before filling the jug full of water and then rinsing Christine's hair.

Nearly choking on a mouthful of bubbles, Christine made to protest against the patronising and brutal behaviour of the woman. It was as if she were nothing but a small child! But before she could speak, the _woman_, with her hands lathered in conditioner began running her fingers through Christine's long locks to detangle them. Again the jug of water descended over her head, washing away the conditioner, before her body was scrubbed raw with a rough flannel and soap.

"I can bathe myself, you know!" she objected petulantly.

"I've had six children, Mistress, and none of them could clean themselves properly unless I was assisting them. I don't believe in lazy soaks – one must be _clean_," she insisted firmly, scrubbing the ends of Christine's fingers nearly raw.

After another minute or so of the torture, the plug was pulled out rather abruptly, leaving Christine shivering in the empty tub. Giselle instantly pulled her to her feet and enveloped her into a hot, fluffy towel, rubbing her skin raw for the second time, and nearly ripping each hair from her head with intense force before she was lathered in a heavy moisturising cream, and the excess was rubbed off once more. Wincing with the force of the woman's efforts, Christine tried to escape her grip, but it only increased the torture.

She gave a relieved sigh when Giselle disappeared, and wrapped the large towel around her frame protectively. For the first time in weeks she was able to stand properly, and was indulging in the relief of shooting pains up the soles of her feet.

She was forced into some oriental wrap dress that was tied too tightly around her waist and chest, falling to her feet and enveloping her hands in layers of pale floral patterned silk before Giselle ran a brush brutally through her hair, drying it at the same time with a towel. Before she could protest, soft-soled shoes were forced onto her feet and she was pushed out of her bedroom into the hallway.

Suffice to say; when Christine stormed into the breakfast room a few moments later, she was _not_ happy.

"What on _earth_ did you think, replacing Jammes with that – that _woman_?" she questioned angrily, slamming the door behind her with an almighty bang. Erik raised his eyes from his newspaper in slight surprise.

"Good morning, Christine. I'm surprised to see you out of bed after yesterday's impromptu swim – you look lovely this morning, my dear," he complimented, sipping his tea with a complete air of indifference.

"Alors, I was dragged out of bed and stripped naked, thrown into boiling water as some madwoman drenched me in soap and shampoo and constantly poured buckets of water over my head, scrubbing my skin until several layers came off, before doing the same with a towel, practically ripping out my hair, then forcing me into a dress that's nearly cutting off my circulation!" she cried angrily. "What I want to know is _why_ you decided to begin the torture so far into my kidnapping."

"Giselle is a very good maid, she gets the job done," he said calmly. "Get off your feet for goodness sake, Christine, you'll tear them open," he commanded. She plonked herself down in her usual chair, her eyes flashing with anger, too petulant to even say her feet felt much better.

"I want Jammes back. I know you're the Master and everything and I'm not really in a position to make demands, but I want Jammes back! _She_ has a sense of modesty!" she insisted, recalling her burning cheeks when Giselle stripped her naked only twenty minutes ago.

"The woman has had half a dozen children, four of which were girls. I don't think you need be coy, Christine, it's rather unlikely you have anything she hasn't seen before," he assured her indifferently.

"I don't care! Why do I have to put up with that – that _heathen_? I want Jammes back!" she demanded angrily.

"Jammes made a very serious error, and as her punishment, she was taken from your service. She understands and accepts this," he informed her calmly.

"It wasn't her fault – I _told_ her to leave! If anyone should be punished it's me!" she snapped. "So do what you want. Beat me. Starve me. Throw me down the stairs – only don't make Jammes pay for what _I_ made her do," she commanded. Erik sighed, and lowered his paper.

"No."

Christine had to admit, she was slightly surprised at his response. She was certain her passionate speech would work – and she gladly _would_ take a punishment instead of Jammes. Although, she felt she already had with the way that horrible _woman_ treated her!

"Jammes is under my employment and my care. My instructions were for her to look after you and ensure that you weren't left alone. She disobeyed those instructions, and it is my right, not yours, to punish her," he informed her simply.

"But – but she was my friend!" Christine found herself crying anxiously. It was true. Jammes _was_ her friend, just about the only friend she had in the mysterious castle, and he was taking her away! "Erik, I'm sorry, but it's not Jammes' fault! She's been so kind to me, and I – I'll be lonely without her," she continued, biting her bottom lip.

Erik sighed. "No, Christine, and that is final. I might review my decision in a few days, when Jammes has had a chance to think on what she did wrong, but for now you need to learn to honour my choices," he said firmly. "So in the meantime, I will ask you to stay away from Jammes. Giselle, Madame Sorelli or I will be happy to assist you in anything you require," he stated calmly. Christine scowled at her plate. "How are you feeling?" he questioned finally.

"Fine."

"You look pale. Are you sure you wouldn't rather stay abed this morning?"

"I'm fine."

"I'm only concerned for your well-being, but if you're feeling well enough, we'll have a lesson after breakfast," he decided.

"I don't want to sing," she practically spat. She _knew_ she was being petulant and childish, but Erik was taking the only friend she'd found in that place, and it was _her _fault that Jammes was being punished. She wanted to make Erik angry, she wanted to humiliate and hurt him.

"If you would prefer we could have your lesson a little later, after lunch, perhaps," he offered in response.

"I don't want to sing today," she snapped, her tone finalising and firm.

"Christine, we're a dangerous combination. Two very stubborn people who don't like compromise. But I suspect that in order for us to get along, compromise we must," he commented.

"Fine. How about this; you leave me alone and I'll leave Jammes alone. Happy?" she threw back pointedly. "I don't want to sing with you, I'd rather sit in my room and stare at the wall. In fact, I'd rather let that crazy woman give me another bath. If you're going to act like a baby and punish Jammes just because she made a little mistake then I'll punish you – only you've made a _lot_ of really _big_ mistakes," she snapped.

"Christine, you're being unreasonable," he objected with great irritation. She rose to her feet.

"No, I'm being stubborn," she drawled coolly. His scowl grew.

"I'll let you off for today because you seem tired, but tomorrow we _will_ resume singing. And you will _not_ speak to Jammes," he commanded firmly.

"You assume I'll be here tomorrow," she challenged daringly. That seemed to anger Erik, his mouth drawn to a terse line.

"Christine..." he began warningly, but she turned heel and stormed out of the room.

The rain had eased since the day before, but a quick glimpse out her window revealed that everything was muddy and would be difficult to walk across. She didn't even bother to change, she was too angry to think properly. She snatched up her ballet bag and checked to make sure she had all her money and her iPod before she swung it over her shoulder.

The hall was empty when she stepped out, as was the foyer when she descended the stairs. She quickly ran to the direction she had once heard horse whinnies come from – Erik had mentioned that the stables where somewhere near the garage, which would hopefully be an easy manner in which to escape.

There was a heavy door by the kitchen that had been left ajar – and when she peered into it, she spotted several gorgeous automobiles sitting silent by each other. She sighed longingly, she'd never learnt to drive, but she'd always liked the look of cars. Shaking her head at her own silliness she scrambled through the garage in the darkness, searching for a switch to open the heavy automatic doors. Cursing her bad luck when she found none, she was surprised to see a well-worn wooden door in the corner, and immediately stepped through it.

She knew she was in the stable before she'd had a chance to take in her surroundings, it smelt like horses and straw and grain, it was earthy and almost intoxicating. There were a few horses tucked away in their pens, a large mahogany mare with gentle eyes, a smaller, older palomino that looked like it was mostly fit for children at a fête, a heavier chestnut with a long mane that could probably drag all the cars in the garage effortlessly, and finally a frighteningly powerful black beast that seemed to radiate strength and danger. Christine felt herself stepping away from the creature without even realising it – but at the same time she felt drawn to him.

_This is Erik's horse_, something seemed to whisper inside of her. It had the same sense of power, authority and danger that Erik radiated; it was dark, mysterious and frightening. She couldn't image a more fitting steed for him.

"Oh, Mistress, what are you doing?" came a timid, questioning voice. Christine turned to see Jammes standing behind her, a basket of carrots held in her hand. She looked positively miserable, and completely ashamed of herself.

"Jammes! Oh, I've missed you already!" she cried, pulling the young girl into a tight hug. Jammes stiffened in surprise.

"Really, Mistress?" she questioned stupidly. Christine nodded. "Oh, Mistress, I've missed you too! But the Master has to be obeyed, and at least he gave you Giselle. She's hard, but she does a good job," she assured her weakly.

"I don't care. She doesn't do as good a job as you, because she's not kind and sweet like you are," she insisted. Jammes gave a timid smile.

"Oh, Mistress, you aren't trying to leave again, are you? Oh, please don't, I'll miss you too much, and the Master will be so upset," she begged pitifully. Christine sighed.

"Well I guess I can't now that you've found me, but I – I have another idea," she decided after a long pause. She looked at Jammes with determination. "I know how we can escape all this, Jammes. The only question is – are you willing to join me?" she asked seriously.

Jammes' jaw fell slightly, and fear flickered in her eyes, before she finally nodded with determination.

* * *

Erik sighed and rested his head against his palms, his elbows supporting him against the desk. Christine's words that morning had hurt him more than he'd allowed himself to feel. Her anger and stubbornness struck his heart and filled him with guilt and regret. He wanted to make it up to her – but he couldn't just ignore his responsibilities as Jammes' employer and caretaker! She made a mistake and she needed to be punished for it, he couldn't use his fatherly fondness for the girl to excuse her behaviour.

But he hadn't expected it to hurt his Christine so much. He only wanted to make her smile – how had he failed his mission so dismally? She was furious with him, and had good reason to be. He'd let his brutish, commanding self take over the situation once more, completely disregarding her objections in favour of affirming his power over his staff.

He couldn't imagine what would happen if she ever realised the true hierarchy in his home – _she_ had the power to make him do whatever she wanted. She had become the 'Mistress' of his home and heart in a surprisingly small amount of time. After only a month of her presence he already couldn't imagine living without it. He only wished their relationship was a little less strained.

He gave another sigh as he leaned back in his polished leather armchair behind his antique desk. His study was one of his favourite rooms, it was decidedly masculine and somewhat forbidding; it suited him. It was a place of darkness; just like himself.

Just as he was contemplating what a slightly feminine touch could achieve in the moving of a writing desk for Christine into his study, the door burst open with a nearly breathless Jammes dragging in a struggling Christine.

"Master! Master, I stopped the Mistress in the stables, she was trying to leave, Master!" she cried anxiously. Christine pulled her arm from Jammes' grip with anger.

"I thought I could trust you, Jammes. I thought we were going to leave here together and be free. How could you betray me like this?" she questioned desperately. Jammes lowered her eyes.

"I'm sorry, Mistress, and you _can_ trust me, only... the Master took me in when I had nowhere else to go, so I _had_ to, Mistress," she pleaded quietly. Erik's keen eyes shifted between the pair with suspicion. "Master, please don't punish Mademoiselle Christine. She didn't mean to hurt you, she really didn't, she said she just misses Paris," she attempted to explain.

"Jammes, I can't believe I ever thought you could understand," Christine practically whispered, her eyes filling with tears. "He – He's imprisoned you too! You don't understand because you've been here too long! He's only going to hurt you, Jammes, you have to get out whilst you still have a chance!" she cried.

"That's quite enough, Christine. Jammes, return to your rooms. Thank you for stopping Christine – you did well," he praised. Jammes' eyes shone with hope. "I'm not angry with you anymore, Jammes. Please, I need to speak with your Mistress for a moment," he requested. Jammes bit her lip, and avoiding Christine's tearful eyes, slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her.

"Well what now, Monsieur? Are you going to send me to bed without supper?" Christine questioned coolly. Erik rose from his desk, and stepped before it, sitting on the edge with his arms crossed to regard Christine at her eye level.

"You did that wonderfully, by the way," he commented. Christine frowned slightly.

"I'm sorry? It wasn't exactly the best plan, Jammes _did_ find me, you know," she pointed out bitterly. She scowled at the ground. "I thought she was going to come with me. You've got her trained better than I suspected," she muttered.

"Oh, not that. Jammes was completely transparent, of course, I would have had trouble recognising your little ruse if it wasn't for her. Clearly she's not cut out for the theatre," he sighed. Christine looked like she was about to object, before she closed her mouth and huffed.

"It was worth a try."

"You shouldn't have glanced up to check my reaction. That gave you away, and your dialogue seemed a little forced," he informed her. She nodded.

"I'll remember that in the future," she muttered. "I just didn't want her to feel guilty. It wasn't fair," she sighed finally.

"I have only one thing to say, however," he declared. She raised her eyes to meet his.

"Please don't tell me you're actually going to send me to bed without supper," she drawled.

"It's more akin to a warning, I'm afraid. Christine, do _not_ push me," he commanded, his tone dangerously calm, but filled with anger. She felt shivers run down her spine. "You've crossed a line. Now I don't care if you try to leave several times a day – but you will _not_ turn those in my home against me. You had _no right_ to make Jammes lie to me – I didn't punish her to be vindictive, I punished her so she learns from her mistakes," he practically growled.

"I only did it to help Jammes," she objected, but was silenced by his glare.

"I know you don't like being here. And I know you hate me, Christine," he stated as calmly as he could, but the words ripped through his heart and left him with a stinging sensation of pain and longing. "But that is _no_ excuse for what you've done. This is a betrayal that I wouldn't have expected from you," he finished with radiating bitterness. Christine turned her head away.

"No. You don't get to make me feel guilty – I'm not your child and I'm not your 'Mistress', I don't belong to you! I'm free to betray whoever I want!" she cried angrily.

"You're acting like nothing more than a spoilt child, Christine Daaé! Go to your room and don't you _dare_ come out until you've learnt an ounce of respect!" he commanded in a voice that nearly shook the walls around him.

"And _you're_ acting like an over-protective parent!" she retorted. "But you're _not_ my father – I don't care what he made you promise but it certainly wasn't to take his place in my life! Maybe Jammes lets you order her around like she were nothing more than scum beneath your shoe, but I'm _not_ Jammes and I'm _not_ weak!" she continued firmly.

In one quick move, Erik picked Christine up and threw her unceremoniously over his shoulder, despite her cries and kicks of objection. He stormed out of his study and down the hall, ripping her bedroom door open and practically throwing her on the bed.

"Do _not_ make the mistake of underestimating me, Christine," he warned dangerously. She trembled in fear, edging back on the bed. "Because you clearly don't understand how dangerously close you are to the end of my endurance. I don't play nice, child, and you would do well to remember that," he finished coolly. Christine had edged as far away from him as he possibly could. She lowered her eyes, and for the first time he was certain that he'd won, and her obedience was finally his.

He was both surprised and impressed when her eyes rose once more too meet his – because he didn't see just fear there, he saw determination.

"You can't threaten someone who no longer has anything to lose, Erik," she said simply, turning away from him. She sat on the edge of the bed, her back turned to him.

Without saying another word, he stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind him. He pulled the master key from his pocket and locked it, the heavy _click_ announcing to both parties that she was trapped.

Erik took a deep breath and pressed his head against the closed door, his hand reaching for the doorknob before he stopped himself. It lay flat against the surface of their barrier, and his rage suddenly sated. He wanted to pull the door open and simply hold her – but his pride stopped him from doing so. He released his breath slowly, feeling somewhat pained as he did so.

He was sick of taking two steps backwards with every one they took forwards – he endeavoured to end the cycle the moment she gave in.

Soon, he assured himself, things would begin to work.

**A/N: Alrighty then, so they didn't hate each other, now they do. I guess I just can't make my mind up, can I? **

**L'Archange: Sorry I can't reply to you by PM or anything, you weren't signed in. I was surprised that you felt using 'Music of the Night' lacked originality. This is fanfiction, after all, and I use elements of the musical. I don't like it at all when people compose their own songs or poetry in a fic, particularly songs. Because you don't know how the song is sung, and I feel that takes away from the song as a feature of the story. Personally, I don't like 'Music of the Night' that much. I also don't like 'All I Ask Of You'. But Andrew Lloyd Webber is a musical genius, and I would never use songs Erik has apparently written by any other composer. My own songs wouldn't fit this, because they're not the right feel for this story. I completely disagree with you on how much my own poetry would add to this fic. I really, **_**really**_** don't like it when writers do that. And it would go against any sense of modesty to claim that a poem or song I had written was fitting with the work of a musical genius like Erik. I apologise for maintaining some levels of canon, if that's the issue you had with this story, but I will be using songs from the 'Phantom of the Opera' and 'Love Never Dies' in this fic, so if you don't like that, then I don't think this is the story for you. **


	10. The Hunger Strike

It took Erik exactly twenty-four hours to become worried.

She refused to see anyone, not Giselle, not Madame Sorelli, not even Jammes.

Her food was sent back to the kitchens untouched.

She refused him entry with a curt 'go away' when he tentatively knocked on her door the next morning, well aware that she hadn't eaten anything since lunch the day before last, meaning she'd gone about forty hours without food – and she was already too tiny.

"You don't have to speak with me. Just eat something, please," he begged through the closed door that afternoon, after leaving her alone for a few more hours in the hope that she'd come around.

"No."

"Christine, _please_, anything, even just an apple or a bit of bread. Just _eat_," he pleaded pathetically.

"No."

He sighed in frustration. If it went on any longer he might be forced to unlock the door and force feed her – after checking his watch he realised it had been a full two days since she'd eaten.

"What is it you want? What can I give you to make you eat?" he questioned incredulously.

"Nothing. I don't want anything of yours," she snapped.

"Well how long do you plan on doing this?" he demanded.

"A healthy human can live up to a month without food, Monsieur," she replied simply. He groaned in annoyance, she'd returned to his formal title.

"Well you're _not_ a healthy human; I give you a week at the most."

"It hardly matters what you think, Monsieur. I'm not interested in your opinion," she declared curtly.

Erik winced as he prepared himself to do what he hadn't really intended on doing, but it now seemed to be his last option. Steeling himself for the impact, he took a deep breath before acting.

"I'm sorry."

He heard a pause in the room.

"What?" she questioned in surprise. He sighed.

"I said I'm sorry. I'm sorry I shouted at you, I'm sorry I argued with you, I'm sorry I was too harsh on Jammes, I'm sorry I threatened you, and I'm sorry I locked you in here," he listed. "Will you please let me in now?" he requested wearily.

"You have the key and it's your home, you hardly need to ask," she retorted coolly.

"It's your room, and I won't enter unless I have your permission," he assured her. "Christine, I didn't bring you to my home to fight. I brought you here because I wanted to spare you the misery of your old life, but I fear I'm only bringing new misery. Please, can we just talk?" he requested softly.

He heard a faint shuffling from behind the door, before hearing her voice, which sounded a great deal closer than before.

"Alright. You can open the door," he heard her reply. Immediately he pulled the key from his pocket and tore the door open as quickly as he could.

She stood before him wearing nothing but a plain grey shirt that hung over her thighs, her long hair tousled but still beautiful in the afternoon sunlight creeping its way through the windows. She turned without a word and slid back into bed.

Unsure of what to do next, he allowed the door to close behind him and glanced around nervously.

"So. Talk," she commanded simply, rolling over in bed and supporting her head with her hand. He sat on the edge of the bed, his entire body tense.

"We argue far too much, Christine. I think we need to reach some sort of consensus. Do you not agree?" he questioned. She shrugged.

"I can think of a few adjustments," she muttered finally. He gave a relieved sigh to realise that she was going to cooperate.

"Such as?"

"Why do you have to boss everyone around so much? You aren't the almighty ruler of the universe, you know," she objected with a frown.

"Christine, the people in this castle are under my employment. I pay them to do as I wish," he explained simply.

"Well I don't like it! And I don't like it when you boss _me_ around too!" she snapped. He sighed.

"I will continue to instruct my staff as I wish, but if you really wish so, I'll try not to 'boss you around.' I realise that you're here by my request –"

"Demand."

"Fine. You're here against your will, but it doesn't mean you should be treated poorly. I apologise," he said honestly. "I... have difficulty in dealing with you. You're too stubborn to do as I wish. I want us to spend more time together, focusing on music and your education. I won't have you disadvantaged due to your position," he said calmly.

"So?"

"I'm suggesting we formulate a routine, and work within it as best we can," he decided finally. She looked thoughtful, before nodding.

"Alright. What were you thinking?" she questioned.

"Well, I won't rearrange meals. How about studies in the morning, music in the afternoon, and the evening can be spent however we wish it?" he offered. She frowned slightly.

"How about music in the morning, music in the afternoon, and whatever I want in the evening? And weekends?" she suggested. He chuckled.

"Unfortunately, my dear, your education is one thing I cannot be lax on. I did promise to focus on it, you know," he informed her. She nodded, her expression suddenly becoming grave. Whenever something referencing Erik's dealings with her father was brought up in conversation he did his best to change the subject, and she did her best to discover more. But it was something unspoken between them – and something that clearly was not supposed to be brought up.

"Alright. So what will we be learning?" she questioned.

"For the most part, musical theory, history, literature, language, but we'll look at other things, art, geography, science, maths," he shrugged.

"I _hate_ maths," she insisted firmly. He chuckled.

"Well perhaps we won't look at maths. But I want to teach you Italian and Latin, and I think it's very important that you learn about history. There are other things that I'm personally interested in, and we may cover them," he said noncommittally.

"Like what?" she questioned with a raised brow.

"Codes, symbols, signs, architecture, I'm very interested in these things. Perhaps I'll educate you in some of them," he shrugged. "You're a good reader, which helps, but there are some books that I'd like you to look at," he added. She sighed, sounding bored already. He chuckled. "I don't want you to become lazy, Christine. A few hours a day is all I require. And I will give you weekends if you desperately desire them," he assured her. She rolled her eyes in annoyance regardless. "Then our music lessons will continue as normal, and in the evenings we will both be free to do as we wish, whether together or apart," he concluded.

"I suppose a routine would involve fewer arguments," she rationalised. He nodded.

"Good. And I will try to treat you as a bit more of an equal, if you would prefer," he promised. "Are there any other adjustments that you can think of?" he questioned.

"Can I have Jammes back?" she questioned hopefully. Erik sighed, and ran a hand through his dark hair.

"I suppose that would be possible," he conceded slowly.

"Good. But I don't want her to be my maid; I want her to be my friend. Where does she sleep?" she questioned.

"Downstairs with the other members of staff. She shares a room with her Aunt," he answered.

"Well can she come and share a room with me? I have plenty of space, and I really want someone to talk to," she begged.

"Christine, I cannot give you this. I've made similar offers to the girl, but she refuses. You need to accept that there are some people happy enough to be told what to do," he sighed in explanation. Christine frowned, and then nodded.

"I understand," she muttered quietly.

"Good. Now she can return as your maid, and we won't tell her that I know the truth behind your trickery. I don't think it needs to be discussed," he decided firmly. She gave another small nod. "Don't look so miserable. Just because you won't be sharing a room doesn't mean you won't be able to have Jammes as a friend," he assured her.

"I know, but... it's like she's my little sister, or something. I really like that," she confessed. He nodded.

"I understand, but this is the way that things must stay. And you can always talk to me, Christine. No matter what about, I promise I'll listen," he swore.

"Really?" she exclaimed, raising her eyes to meet his. He gave a small smile.

"Of course. Now is there anything else you wanted to discuss? We'd best get you downstairs for something to eat."

"Well... two things, really," she began slowly. "Uhh, the first is sort of a repeat of what I've been asking you for a while yet. How – how did you know my father? How did you come to promise him whatever you promised? That's it, isn't it, you promised something to him, right?" she questioned. His eyes went to the open window with a slight frown.

"Not yet. There is too much to explain."

She sighed. She had been expecting as such – he wasn't prepared to tell her the truth of the matter yet. In fact, she would be shocked if he actually _had_ confessed the truth.

"And the second thing you wanted to ask?" he reminded her.

"Oh, uh, I don't know if I should..." she muttered ashamedly. He turned to face her with a curious expression. She blushed. "It's just – what – what am I, Erik?" she asked finally.

"A seventeen-year-old thorn in my side."

"No, I mean, what _am_ I? To you? To this household? What's my purpose? What's my _place_?" she questioned in confusion.

"You're my charge. My ward. _Mon_ _pupille_," he answered simply.

Christine sighed in frustration.

"So that's my place? I'm treated like... your daughter, or something?" she asked with a frown. He chuckled.

"Do I look old enough to be your father?" he questioned teasingly. She shrugged.

"How old _are_ you?"

"Oh, I have no idea. I can guess, but I'm not certain," he replied simply, sounding completely uninterested in the topic.

"You don't know how old you are?" she exclaimed in complete shock. He shrugged.

"As I said, I can only guess. I _am_ old enough to be your father, however," he reasoned thoughtfully. "I know I am old enough _physically_, but legally, perhaps not," he decided finally. "And regardless, you're not viewed as my child. You're viewed as a young woman placed in my care. You're my responsibility, you're a guest of my home, and thus above a servant in rank," he informed her.

"Rank?" she questioned, as if the term disgusted her.

"The staff are there to serve and assist you, Christine, but they will obey my instructions over yours. And as you are still a child in the eyes of the law –"

"I doubt law has much to do with my place here."

"Quite, Christine," he chuckled. "You're on the same level as any child of mine would be. You can assist in the running of this castle, if you truly wish it, but my authority supersedes yours," he finished.

"Alright," she huffed. "I just wanted... to know, I guess," she said simply. He nodded in understanding.

"Of course. Things run differently in the castle as they do to the rest of the world. That's why I like this place, this _bourgade,_ it's separate from the rest of the world, a simple self-sufficient village that doesn't seem to have moved on in time since the nineteenth century," he explained.

"I've noticed that. It's nice, though," she muttered thoughtfully, lying back on the bed with a small yawn.

"Christine, don't go to sleep. You need to eat," he said warningly.

"Mmm. I need to sleep."

Erik gave a small smile as her eyelids fluttered to a close, before leaning over and ringing the bell for a servant by her bed. Madame Sorelli appeared as if by magic in only a few moments, relieved to see that her Mistress' door was open.

"Just some dry toast and tea for now I think, Madame Sorelli. She wouldn't be able to stomach much else," he instructed.

"Of course, Master. I'll fetch it right away!" she said firmly, bustling out of the room.

Erik allowed himself a small smile as he moved to the door. She looked terribly peaceful in her sleep.

But her questions niggled at his conscious. What _was_ she to him? After all, the difference in their age was quite severe, and his experience with women didn't tend to lead down the _purest _of paths, but was she even a woman? She was so innocent that he didn't know if the term could truly apply.

He sighed as he stepped into the hall.

He was deep in it, and there was no point in lying to himself.

His feelings for Christine Daaé were far surpassing that of a man and his ward.

**A/N: Well, well, well. Things are looking better for them :D**


	11. The Beach

It might have been due to the frank discussion between Erik and Christine, or it might have been the new routine they had settled into, or it could have simply been their weariness in continuing to argue, but things immediately picked up from that day forth.

The routine was easy enough to settle into. Jammes would assist Christine in getting up while Erik exercised or rode his horse or whatever he did of a morning, before she returned to the kitchens and Christine joined Erik for breakfast. After their meal, they would take to either the library or the study for her lessons. Erik had books on every topic she could ever imagine, and he was determined to teach her.

His method of teaching when it came to science or history greatly differed to his manner of teaching her music. He was _far_ less strict, and a great deal more helpful.

"That's very good, but it was actually 1912, not 1916. Could he really paint something that peaceful in the middle of a World War?" he questioned teasingly, leaning over her shoulder to inspect some of her notes on art history. She rolled her eyes.

"Hmm. It looked like a two to me," she muttered in slight annoyance. He chuckled, and ruffled her dark curls before crossing back to the bookshelves he was haunting.

Had she made a small mistake like that during a music lesson, he would bark at her in fury and make her begin again. Although, despite his attitude during their music lessons, she preferred them to the morning sessions. She could feel an improvement already. They were only singing or playing reasonably simple songs, but she could sing three octaves with reasonable comfort and play a sonata without making some serious error a month into their new arrangement.

It was the evenings, however, that she unwillingly admitted to having the most delight.

It was some sort of unspoken agreement between them. They would go into Erik's private study, she would settle herself on the chaise or on the large rug, reading a book, listening to music or just talking as he worked on whatever he did on his laptop – one of the few modern things she had found in the castle. He told her quite plainly that he didn't like television but he was fond of some movies, and there was a widescreen LCD TV in one of the parlours, but she suspected it was never used.

They spoke about a lot of things. Music, art, literature, Christine's plans for the future, the amusing thing that Madame Sorelli had done that morning, her childhood, just about whatever popped into her head. He spoke very little of himself, he seemed content to hear her babble on. Occasionally she would demand he tell her a little about his past, but he only ever recounted his visits to her when she was a child.

"Do you remember the piano?"

"How could I forget! I used to sit underneath it and sing along when my father practised," she laughed dreamily as she plaited her long curls.

"I know. Whenever I arrived you were always hidden beneath it with a book," he chuckled, tapping away at his laptop.

"I remember that! And Papa would get angry, because he thought I was being impolite," she laughed. She sighed, and glanced out the window. "It's so hot tonight," she declared.

"Did you want to go for a swim?" he questioned, not moving his eyes from the screen.

"Of course! And can we go down to the beach tomorrow?" she asked hopefully.

"Well, it's Sunday, so most of the staff will be in town at the church. I don't know if there'd be anyone to go with you," he replied thoughtfully.

"You can come. And Jammes, too, when she's finished at church, if she's not busy," she decided.

"You can swim tonight, and we'll see what the weather is like tomorrow. If it's warm enough, I'll go down to the beach with you," he sighed finally.

"Oh, _thank you_, Erik!" she cried eagerly, bounding up immediately. He chuckled at her joy, before she completely surprised him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders in a tight hug, before kissing his unmasked cheek.

His heart felt as if it had suddenly leapt out of his chest and into his throat, but she was too excited to notice.

"I'm going to go for a swim now. Should I get Madame Sorelli, or will you come too?" she questioned, stopping her bounding for a moment.

"Uh – I'll go with you," he practically stammered. She beamed.

"Alright, I'll see you in the poolroom in a minute," she promised, before bounding out of the room.

Erik slowly raised his hand to the side of his face in disbelief. It was as if he could still feel where her incredibly soft lips had kissed him, and his shoulders and chest were just as tight as if she had her arms still wrapped around them.

"_Damn_," he muttered angrily. "_Damn_!" he repeated, slamming his fist down on the edge of his desk.

The past month had been incredible. He'd been using every ounce of his energy and manipulative skills to make Christine feel secure and comfortable with him. She'd not tried to escape since their discussion and their lessons had been going well. Two months ago she refused to even look at him, let alone sit in his study all evening, chatting about books she had read and enjoyed from his wide selection. He'd made progress, such progress! But now his vision was impaired, his growing affection for the girl was overwhelming. He couldn't deny her a single thing.

"Not going to go in, Erik?" she questioned playfully, skipping down into the poolroom where he was already seated by the pool, his laptop before him.

"No, Christine, I have work to do," he informed her simply, turning his head down to his computer, but his eyes were trained on her as she took off her robe.

She wore a simple black one-piece swimming costume with a low back, but he couldn't imagine her looking any sexier in _anything_. Well, perhaps if she were wearing _nothing_...

He immediately chastised himself for thinking such a thing. It was Christine! Christine, his charge, his pupil, his innocent little angel. He wasn't supposed to feel what he felt for her! It was _wrong_!

His throat felt dry as she dived into the crystal blue water of his indoor pool, lights on the walls and bottom illuminating her form. She was like some sort of mythical creature moving with grace and elegance, her long, perfect limbs projecting her forwards beneath the surface of the pool. She rose to the surface with a brilliant smile and twinkling dark emerald eyes.

"The water is lovely. Are you sure you won't come in?" she attempted to persuade him. He chuckled.

"I have work to complete, Christine. But don't let that stop you from enjoying yourself," he urged her, his eyes locked onto his laptop. He didn't trust himself to look at her, not with the incredible sight she offered, water dripping off her ivory skin and the ends of her dark curls, which were pasted over her shoulders and cheeks. She rolled her eyes, and dove back into the water without another word.

"I used to love swimming, you know. It's always been such fun," she sighed happily, reclining on her back and floating with her dark hair pooling around her body.

"Hmm."

"So how long have you lived here?"

"A while."

"And has it always just been you?"

"And the staff, yes. A... friend of mine used to come here with his family in the holidays, but they're all gone now. There have been... guests, but no one taking a permanent position," he answered simply, thinking over the memories that had passed there. Reza had enjoyed swimming, too, just like Christine, even though Rookheya and the Daroga would always watch over him nervously.

"Doesn't it get lonely?" she questioned curiously, propping herself up along the side of the pool, gazing up at him with inquisitive dark emerald eyes. His breath caught.

If only she knew...

"You'd best just enjoy your swim and not waste time asking me questions, Christine. Madame Sorelli shall be rather upset lest I return you to the main house at an appropriate hour," he replied in a finalising tone. She sighed, recognising the end to that line of discussion. As it always was.

She stayed in the water till her fingers turned to prunes, before climbing out and burying herself in a large, fluffy blue towel that she could wrap around her three times with ease. Her dark hair dripped down her back and droplets of water caught in her lashes – a more beautiful sight could not be imagined by Erik.

"You had best have a bath or shower before bed. We'll go down to the beach after breakfast tomorrow if the weather holds," he informed her. She nodded eagerly beneath the folds of fluffy towel. He smiled gently at the adorable picture she presented.

"Thank you, Erik. A late-night swim was just what I needed," she grinned. "Maybe I should get you to join me one of these days," she added casually.

"Perhaps, Christine. Now off to bed, I won't have you standing around here, catching a cold," he instructed, brushing a damp strand of hair off her forehead. Instinctively, she gave him an awkward (not to mention damp) hug. He stiffened once again in surprise, but kissed her forehead before she released him and patted her shoulder gently.

"Good night, Erik. I hope you sleep well," she smiled, before disappearing upstairs to her room.

Erik sighed and gave a soft chuckle. It was another new step in the right direction for their relationship, but a dangerous leap in his affections for her. If he didn't know himself better, he might just say he was falling in...

He stopped himself before he let his feelings run away. With a bitter smile he realised that he could never have what he wanted with his precious little Christine.

But that was alright. He had her, and whilst not in the capacity he would have liked, it was... enough.

For now.

* * *

Christine was buzzing with excitement as she readied herself for the day ahead. Her eagerness was a combination of several things, her joy at seeing the bright sun in the clear blue sky that morning, signalling that she and Erik would be able to go down to the beach, like he had promised, but also the prospect of seeing Erik.

Somehow, in the past month since they'd established their routine, she'd begun to secretly treasure moments they spent together. When she put her stubbornness aside and realised just how caring and warm Erik could be, she came to realise that maybe he was her friend, not just her kidnapper, after all. It was a pity the circumstances were so strained – but she was growing to care for him more than she had really thought herself capable of.

"You look very happy this morning, Mistress Christine," Jammes commented.

"I am, Jammes. I'm very... happy," she sighed, with a rapidly growing grin, slipping into her walk-in wardrobe to change for the day ahead. "You can go now, Jammes. Have fun at church," she called out, before pulling open the drawer where she had found the swimming costume she wore the night before. It was still damp, so she couldn't wear it again, but she wanted to see if there was anything else. Her searching fingers paused over a piece of bright red material, not even hearing Jammes' thanks yous and goodbyes for that morning.

She pulled out the bikini and held it up for inspection. Biting her lip, she sighed, and pulled it on. So what if it was a little daring? It wasn't like Erik thought of her that way, anyway.

She didn't know why she felt slightly bitter at that thought. Did she _want_ Erik to like her in that way? After all, he was very handsome, wealthy and talented – she was a stupid teenager who used to be able to sing. Sighing, she realised that Erik was certainly out of her league. And after knowing her for so long, particularly when she was a child, it was to be expected that he only had paternal feelings for her. Who wouldn't? After all, he might even be old enough to be her father! But when she thought of that near moment in the pond... it still made her skin burn and her spine tingle.

She pulled on a simple tee-shirt and denim shorts, tying her hair up as she practically skipped down the stairs. She wanted Erik to think of her like that, she decided finally. She didn't know why she wanted that, and she certainly didn't expect that he ever could, but perhaps it would be... nice.

"Hmm. You look prepared for the best," Erik commented, noting her attire as she made it into the breakfast room.

"You said we'd go down to the beach if the weather was good, and it's _perfect_. So I intend on making you honour that promise," she insisted firmly. He chuckled, and closed his newspaper.

"That I did, and the weather does look good. We'll go after breakfast then," he conceded.

"Good, because I would have been more than a little annoyed if you hadn't kept your promise," she said sternly. He smiled.

"I'd expect no less. Now eat up, we'll go as soon as you're ready."

Christine stuffed a cup of tea and a few pastries down with as much haste as she could, before Erik sent one of the maids up for a towel and some sand shoes. The girl who Christine suspected was called Grace appeared a moment later, passing the items to her mistress.

"Thank you. Now, Christine, we will go," Erik said finally. With an excited squeal, Christine jumped up from her chair and practically bounced up and down on the spot. Erik laughed, taking her by the arm and leading her through to one of the side doors. "Now we must be careful, the quickest path down to the beach is a little steep, Christine," he warned.

"I don't care. It just feels so good to be outside!" she sighed happily, releasing his arm and skipping before him. He chuckled at the sight.

"Come on, my dear. This way," he directed, leading her over to a slope in the cliff, completely covered in beach daisies. She scooped up a handful, taking Erik's hand with the other when the slope became a little more severe. She could sense his fear, but she knew it wasn't for himself. She was touched at his concern.

The quickest way down to the beach was a series of stone steps that had been cut out of the cliff face some years ago by a clever inhabitant. The distance from the side of the steps to the rocks bellow was rather brutal, and Christine felt a surge of fear within her.

"It's alright, just hold onto me," Erik instructed. She gripped his hand tightly and practically clung onto his arm as they began their descent. "You're never to come down here alone, do you hear, Christine? This is dangerous, and I won't have you injured for the sake of a little sea-bathing," he said sternly. She nodded. She didn't know if she'd be able to make it all the way down anyway, not by herself!

The last step was met with a rocky covering they had to walk over before they got to the beach. Christine demanded they stop every ten seconds to peer at some interesting creature in the small pools that nature had provided them with before they finally got to the sand.

"Oh, it's so beautiful!" she sighed, staring out to the seemingly endless ocean with soft, wistful eyes. "Are you going to swim?" she questioned, already knowing the answer. He shook his head.

"No, I'll be content to keep an eye on you, and I have my newspaper," he smiled, tapping the folded paper between his elbow and side. "Go on then, we need to return for lunch, but you have most of the morning to enjoy this," he informed her, taking a seat on the rock nearest to the shore, which was almost being sprayed by the ocean mist. She rolled her eyes at his stubbornness, before tossing down her sandals and towel. Erik watched her out of the corner of his eye as she pulled off her shirt and shorts, revealing a red bikini that he'd forgotten purchasing for her. He'd ordered the majority of her wardrobe from a catalogue, and simply circled anything that he noticed, but _this_... it was veritable torture!

She was stunning. Slender, but still with some lovely curves, a completely flat stomach and the hint of her hip bones on her sides, and the spaghetti strapped bikini top didn't leave much to the imagination. He instantly regretted going down to the beach, he had no idea how he was going to survive until lunch, not with her body on display before him!

She gave him one last cheeky smile before strolling lazily over to the edge of the water. He lowered his newspaper to allow himself a better view, not even caring if she noticed. She walked out until the water sloshed around her creamy thighs, fingers dangling on the surface of the waves.

"Are you _sure_, Erik?" she questioned teasingly, turning her head. He nearly groaned with the image she presented.

"I – I think so," he managed to choke out. She laughed.

"Alright then, suit yourself," she shrugged, before continuing to walk out. She sighed happily, floating on her belly and projecting herself into the gentle waves with long, elegant limbs.

_This isn't fair_, Erik thought bitterly to himself. And it really wasn't. She was so beautiful, so sweet and innocent and lovely, why did she have to be so untouchable to him? He felt, despite how very close she seemed, hundreds of kilometres away from where she stood. He surveyed with great bitterness the obstacles between them.

Their ages. He guessed himself to be from his mid thirties, maybe even forty! He was at the very least, twice her age. It wouldn't matter so much in ten or twenty years, but _now_... it was rather concerning.

Her obvious distress at being kidnapped placed another barrier between them. She still resented him, he knew, particularly when he was so reluctant to tell her of his involvement with her father. But so many other questions would follow, and he'd have to explain so much of his life... how could he put himself through such a thing? He wasn't yet ready to lose the little respect she had for him by admitting the truth of his past dealings. He needed a little more time to be selfish, to build up her esteem so she might have some remaining before he devastated her.

But somehow he felt the most obvious of their separations was his mask. How could anyone love a man with such a hideous face that he had to hide it from the world? No, he could never remove his mask to his precious Christine. He didn't think he could take the disgust on her face when she saw the _real_ Erik.

"Oh good Lord, give me strength," he muttered helplessly as she bent over slightly to inspect something beneath the waves. He tugged at his collar, unable to look away from her.

"I found a fish!" she cried with curious delight. "He's so lovely. Did you know there were fish here, Erik?" she enquired thoughtfully.

"Indeed I did. The town's main source of finance comes through fishing, Christine," he replied.

"But we hardly ever eat fish," she commented thoughtfully.

"Yes, because you hate fish," he pointed out. She laughed, pushing a few locks of dark hair back.

"I do, but I'll eat it if you want me to, it's supposed to be healthy for you," she commented, wincing slightly when she thought of the taste.

"I'll make you a deal. If you can catch that fish before lunch, Christine, I'll let you select whatever you want to eat for dinner for the next week," he declared suddenly. She laughed.

"Even chocolate? Every night for dinner, nothing but chocolate and ice cream and strawberries?" she challenged, with a raised brow. He chuckled, and nodded.

"_Bien sûr_. Anything you want, but you have to catch the fish first, Christine," he pointed out. She grinned with determination.

"Prepare to _lose_, my dear friend," she replied, before diving beneath the surface of the crystal blue waves. She returned a few moments later. "Do crabs count?" she frowned slightly, her dark hair pasting around her face.

"No, I'm afraid," he chuckled. She sighed dramatically, and dove back into the water.

All in all, Erik had a very pleasant morning, watching Christine grow adorably frustrated as she attempted to catch a fish with her bare hands. He often made suggestions that he knew would do nothing but make her task all the more difficult, but certainly increased his enjoyment, such as offering his newspaper to be of assistance. Even _she_ knew it would end badly, but it _was_ amusing to watch her attempt to hold together the soggy mass that was once his paper.

"You have a rather cruel sense of humour, Erik," she huffed accusingly, finally declaring her task impossible and joining him at the rocks. She wrapped her towel around her dripping body with a pout.

"I've been told of such. Now, my dear, it's time for lunch," he informed her with a playful smile, rising from the rock where he had placed himself. She teasingly flicked the ends of her dark hair at him, spraying him in salty water. He laughed, wiping his cheek. "It appears you also have a cruel streak, Christine," he chuckled.

She grinned proudly before gripping onto his arm as they began to ascend the stone steps leading back up the cliff.

"How long do you think these have been here?" she asked curiously.

"Oh, many years. The castle was a sort of secret hideaway for the monarchy many years ago, so I think they must have been put in at least then," he answered informatively.

"However did you find such a place?"

"I didn't. I had a clear picture in my mind of what I wanted, and the rest was carried out with relative ease. I hired an estate agent to find it for me," he shrugged simply. "Now, my dear, close your eyes. This has to be done properly," he said suddenly, pausing just before they mounted the incline that would put them in view of the castle.

Christine suddenly felt fear grip her, and she clutched tightly onto Erik as his hand went over her eyes.

"Please. Don't."

"Christine, I'm not going to throw you off this cliff," he assured her gently, smoothing her hair and kissing the side of her brow to calm her fears. Her breathing returned to normal, she sniffled, and nodded. Gently he eased her forwards, until she felt they were standing at the top of the hill. "Now, Christine... look," he commanded, removing his hand.

She gasped in wonder and awe as she saw the castle for the first time from the outside. She vaguely realised that Erik had been standing behind her when they went down to the cove so she wouldn't turn and see the castle for herself, but now it was being fully displayed to her in all its wonder and glory.

From one side, she could see stone walls and a well-worn dirt road leading behind the castle, separated by a large wooden gate that looked as if it would take several people to open. They were on the edge of two worlds, to the back, a thick, dense covering of trees surrounded the high stone walls, but to the front, there was a fair incline covered in trees, shrubbery, some wild flowers, going all the way down till it turned rocky. The slope of the cliff wasn't as severe as she initially thought it, but they were easily seventy feet from the shore at the foot of the castle.

And the castle itself... off-white stone walls covered in moss, ivy and surrounded by red roses that looked like they were treated to the best of care. It was gorgeous. The style was distinctively European; it looked hundreds of years old, with tall turrets, towers and those thick stone walls, both there for support and separation from the rest of the world.

"It's beautiful," she murmured softly.

"Hmm. I like to think so," he agreed quietly, his warm hands gently running over her shoulder and down to her elbow, as if it were an incredibly familiar motion. She laughed suddenly. "What?"

"I see what you meant about that tree. I didn't know the drop was so severe," she explained, pointing to the thick bough that hung over one of the castle walls. It was the same tree she had tried to use for her escape, but from the bough to the ground was a distance of about twenty feet. She'd never survive.

"Well I'm very glad you didn't succeed. I've gotten quite attached to this thorn in my side," he replied teasingly, ruffling her dark hair in another gesture of familiarity. She laughed, and leant back lightly into his chest, knowing he was holding her secure.

"Do you always leave the gates open?" she asked curiously, glancing over to the heavy wooden doors by the road that probably led to town. Erik frowned slightly.

"No, I... ah. We'd best go up, I'd like to introduce you to someone," he said suddenly, a small grin spreading over his face. He took her hand and continued to lead her up to the castle by the side entrance. "Go to your room and change, I need to speak with our visitor. And when you _do_ meet him, I would not advise discussing your... situation. He knows not to ask questions," he instructed. She nodded, and headed for the grand staircase as Erik strolled over to the entrance hall.

"Good day, monsieur. I've brought you your piano," declared a tired, but very pleased looking Moreau when Erik found him.

"Thank you, Moreau. I trust you've brought your sons to assist?" he questioned, to which the gentleman nodded.

"Yes, Madame Sorelli sent them to the kitchens for coffee. She's off fetching the stable boys now," he answered diligently.

"Good," Erik nodded. "Well, come to my study, we'll settle the bill before we move it to Christine's room," he instructed, leading Moreau through the hallway. He pulled forth his check book as Moreau eagerly clutched onto his hat before his desk. A moment later Erik handed him the crisp check, and his eyes widened.

"Thank you _very_ much, Monsieur. Your business is always _most _appreciative," he muttered clumsily, trying not to look too pleased as he slipped the check into his coat pocket securely.

"Yes, yes, now we need to look at transport."

"Your elevator is still connected, is it not?" Moreau questioned, as they headed back to the main hall.

"Bien sûr. Although it's not been used since bringing in the cello last winter," he answered.

"This piano is quite light, monsieur. I'm sure it won't be a problem if we only send my youngest boy up with it," he replied. "And what of your ward? Has she chosen a place for the piano to go yet?" he questioned.

"She doesn't know the piano even exists, Moreau. But it's to go in her sitting room. The doors are wide, but it will still need to be placed on its side, and tuned before she can use it."

"Of course, monsieur. I should go fetch my sons so we can –"

"Erik! We really _do_ have a guest!" came a laughing, slightly surprised voice from the top of the stairs as Christine skipped down. Her hair was still slightly damp, but pulled back with a lovely white ribbon. She wore a dress he'd seen once or twice before; he surmised it to be her favourite, white with a boat collar, the hem ending a fair bit too short for him to be comfortable with when Moreau's young sons would be parading around his home. But regardless, she looked as lovely as ever as she bounded down the stairs to his side, colliding with him in an energetic laugh. He chuckled, and held her steady with one strong arm.

"Christine, this is an old acquaintance of mine, Monsieur Moreau. Moreau, this is Christine Daaé, my ward. She's the reason behind the commission," he introduced. Christine gave the man a warm, welcoming smile.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," she nodded. Moreau gave an almost nervous grin.

"And you, Mademoiselle. Erik told me his charge was a lovely creature, but that simply doesn't do you justice," he greeted. Christine laughed and blushed.

"Thank you, Monsieur. Does this mean that Erik actually _did_ commission a piano with you?" she questioned curiously. Moreau bowed his head.

"Indeed he did. He's one of my best customers, Mademoiselle."

"Erik! You got me a _piano_?" she exclaimed, turning to him with an expression of deep surprise. He smiled gently.

"I promised I would, Christine, and as you know, I always keep my promises," he replied simply.

"You spend far too much money on me, Erik," she scolded, before laughing and giving him a tight hug. "But thank you, all the same," she added. He patted her hair, and she released him.

"Now, be a good girl and go tell Madame Sorelli to prepare lunch for our extra guests, if you please. It will take a while to move the piano into your room," he instructed. She nodded, and glanced over his shoulder.

"Are those your children, Monsieur?" she questioned Moreau curiously, upon seeing four strapping young men stepping into the hall to join them.

"Yes, Mademoiselle Daaé. These are my boys, Bastian, Ambroise, Felix and Léonce," he introduced, each young man nodding when their name was called. "Boys, this is Monsieur Danté's ward, Christine Daaé. The piano is her guardian's gift to her," he informed his sons.

Erik scowled as the boys appreciatively looked Christine up and down. She smiled politely, unaware of her impact on them.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," she said, smiling prettily. The youngest, Léonce, who would only be a few years older than herself, flushed bright red.

"Christine? I believe I asked you to do something for me?" Erik reminded her, with slight irritation.

"Oh, sorry, Erik. Of course," she nodded, before slipping past him on her way to the kitchens.

"Boys, go make sure you have everything ready, and bring the van over to the garage," Moreau instructed his sons. They took a few seconds to properly react, each of them with their heads turned to watch Christine go. They clumsily stumbled out the way they had came to begin the task. "Pretty young girls have the most amusing effect on them," he chuckled.

"Hmm. I hope your sons know their boundaries," he muttered with slight coolness.

"Of course. More than anything they know their place, they daren't not even speak to girls from a different _arrondissement_," Moreau assured him. "But she is... quite the _jolie _young woman. Are you –"

"She is not my mistress, Moreau, she is my ward," he snapped firmly, his tone declaring the topic no longer open for discussion. Moreau nodded.

"Of course, Monsieur. Now, I will go see how my sons are doing," he muttered dutifully, making his way towards the garage.

Erik sighed. A jealous creature by nature, he was beginning to regret commissioning the piano for Christine. He'd not considered what would happen when it was delivered.

"You're really spoiling me, you know," Christine commented a few minutes later, joining him in her bedroom where he was shifting a few things to make moving the piano into her sitting room a little easier.

"Nonsense. I won't have you going without," he replied diligently, pushing the heavy chest at the end of her bed slightly to the right.

"Hmm. You can be very sweet like that," she laughed, blushing slightly when she realised what she'd just said. He gave a small, quiet smile. "I realised something today, you know," she said suddenly, sitting atop her bed. He raised a questioning brow, and she patted the place on her bed next to her. He sat down with slight hesitation. "When you made me close my eyes, I thought..." she sighed.

"I know what you thought. But I would _never_ hurt you, Christine," he assured her, gently easing her into his arms. She nodded against his shoulder.

"But... when you _did_, I was scared. I suddenly knew that I wanted to live, that I didn't want to die because... I always thought I had nothing to live for," she murmured. "But... I guess I feel like I have a friend now, and that made me realise that I don't want to die," she explained. He nodded.

"I realised that too. But it also meant that you don't trust me yet," he noted with slight bitterness. She shrugged.

"No. I don't, and I won't deny that, Erik," she said simply. "You _still_ kidnapped me, you're _still_ holding me captive and you _still_ won't tell me why. You can't expect me to feel secure after only two months," she added.

"I know. I had merely hoped that you might have... realised that I'm not here to hurt you. Only to help you."

"Erik, do you think that two months ago I would have willingly spent the day with you? A lot has changed, you have to let me take my time," she reasoned with a small, comforting smile. He nodded, and released her.

"Of course, Christine," he replied, smiling gently, rising once more to his feet.

"It really was very sweet, taking me down to the beach, getting me a piano," she pointed out. The smile increased slightly.

"Keep away from Moreau's boys. I won't have you breaking their hearts when they're working," he said sternly, with a hint of laughter in his pale eyes. She blushed, and rolled her eyes.

"You overestimate my effect on men," she laughed.

"No. _You_ underestimate it," he returned simply, glancing around the room. "I think that should suffice. I'll go see how they're going," he declared, before leaving the room, leaving Christine in a state of complete confusion.

What did he mean by that?

**A/N: So, Christine is now at a point where she is patiently waiting for the truth from Erik, but she won't try to escape again for a while. Meanwhile, Erik is going to explode. I'm starting to drop hints about future characters... but I think it's time I give you a very clear hint of where this story is going. So here is a list of the main characters that will be a part of this story:**

**Erik**

**Christine**

**Nadir Kahn**

**Marie Giry**

**Meganne Giry**

**Raoul de Chagny**

**Philippe de Chagny**

**Ana de Chagny**

**So, there is still a long way to go get. This story is really split into three volumes, and the time at the castle is the first volume. I will give you clear markings of each stage, but this is going to be a long fic, my lovelies :D**


	12. The Truth

Erik shot up suddenly, burgundy silk sheets pooling around his waist, his breathing heavy and sweat dripping from his brow. Glancing around his personal chambers in haste, he slowly calmed himself, and fell back into the mass of pillows and sheets of his grand bed.

He groaned as he recalled intimate details of his dream, feeling much too hot by merely contemplating it. He pulled himself out of bed and to the window, throwing it open as the cool night air enveloped him. He immediately felt relieved, but somewhere, deep in his consciousness there still remained the dark stain of his desires.

It had been the most wonderful day of Christine's time there. After breakfast they spent the morning at the beach, where she wore the skimpiest bikini he could imagine, before they returned to the castle, to hear her piano had arrived. It took a few hours for it to be fully in place and tuned to perfection, but it was worth the wait when she saw it.

In her gratitude, she very nearly hugged the life out of him, and pressed a sudden kiss to his lips. It didn't seem like much, and could be taken as friendliness, but somehow he knew it was more than that. Or rather, he wanted to _think_ it was more than that.

He gave a deep sigh, and tried to contain his feelings. It wasn't fair that he was now furious with the poor girl, all she'd done was give him a kiss, and suddenly it was _her_ fault that his body burned with need, longing and desperation. He glanced to the door that led directly from his room into Christine's, a door that she had never tried to open. How easy it would be to simply march in there... He stared out to the cove where they had spent the morning. She had looked so beautiful, splashing about in the waves. He wanted to storm through that door and take her in his arms and –

And what? Kiss her? She was so _young_, and he _knew_ she did not yet trust him; he couldn't afford to push the boundaries! He needed to keep control, or else all would be lost!

With an angry grunt he touched the side of his hideous face, as if to remind him of the difference between them. No one could ever love his face; it had become his security blanket over the years, but now, more than ever... it had become his curse.

* * *

"You're too heavy on your right hand. Loosen your wrist and start again," Erik snapped angrily.

"Sorry."

"Don't apologise, just do what I say," was his clipped response, turning from his pupil to flick through his vast collection of sheet music. Taking a slow breath, Christine began the piece again. "Did you not listen to a _word_ I just said?" he demanded two bars in.

"I'm sorry, Erik," she said honestly, removing her hands from the ivory keys of his grand piano.

"Fine. Leave it. We'll start your singing," he practically growled, snatching up the copy of Shumann's _Traumerei _from before her and instead forcing the sheets for _Think of Me_ into her hands.

It had been two weeks since that day on the beach, and during that time, Erik had been short and cold to her, barely speaking a word that was not absolutely necessary, or laced with cruelty. They had been working on '_Think of Me_' every day since, and she had been practising in her room with her new piano. She was so desperate to get it right – but after the disaster of her first attempt, she had to admit she was somewhat petrified. And Erik's sudden cold manner was only prohibiting her progress.

And Erik's short temper was starting to unnerve her. He was in such a terrible mood that she felt like crawling into her bed and hiding away where he couldn't find her and shout orders and criticisms. Something was bothering him, but she wasn't brave enough to question it. For the past two weeks she had been keeping on her toes, terrified of what she could have done to upset him.

She was struck out of her reverie by a lingering F sharp that was her starting note.

"Aren't we going to warm up first?" she questioned with a frown, as Erik seated himself and she took her place in the curve of the grand piano.

"We'll run through it once as a warm up. I haven't the time to waste," he snapped. "Now. Begin," he commanded, pressing the F sharp once more.

Taking a deep breath, Christine began to sing. She didn't even finish the fourth bar when he stopped playing the melody line for her.

"Again."

"_Think of me, think of me fondly,_

_When we've said goodbye,_"

"Again, but annunciate."

"_Think of me, think of me fondly,_

_When we've said goodbye,_

_Remember me –_"

"Stop wavering, this is not sung in vibrato."

"_Remember me, once in a while,_

_Please –"_

"The direction is _allegretto_, not _largo_! It's a love song, not some sort of _lugubre_ funeral march!"

"_Remember me, once in a while_

_Please promise me you'll try,_

_When you _–"

"You're flat on that phrase. Pay attention to your pitch."

"_When you find, that once again you long,_

_To take your heart back and be free,_

_If you _–"

"You're still half a step down, Christine."

"_If you ever find a moment,_

_Spare a thought for me_,"

"B, A, F sharp, E, F sharp, G, C sharp, D, Christine, not whatever bloody notes you want," Erik snapped, glaring sharply at his pupil.

"I'm _trying_, but it's a difficult song, particularly when you're not warmed up!" she snapped.

"It's _not_ difficult, three years ago you would have been able to sing this without even trying!" he retorted angrily.

"Well that was three years ago, so I'm _sorry_ if I'm out of practise!" she returned, her dark emerald eyes flashing.

"You can sing the notes and you can annunciate and transition through the pitches, so _why_ can't you sing this song?" he exclaimed with frustration.

"Well who is she? Who is she singing to? Why did they have to part? Whose fault was it?" she demanded finally, as if those questions had been burning her for some time.

"No one's. They just drifted apart."

Christine sighed. "I never understood how that could happen to someone," she muttered. "I mean, if you love another person, how can you just drift apart? How can you separate from someone you care for so much?" she questioned incredulously. "The only conclusion I can make is that they never loved each other at all. Otherwise, nothing could separate them," she reasoned quietly, staring across the room at nothing in particular.

"And this is your opinion of love?" he questioned with a raised brow. Christine shrugged, looked thoughtful, and nodded.

"Yes. I've never _been_ in love, but I think it's something... all consuming," she replied quietly. "Where you can't stop thinking about the other person, where you won't let anything separate you, and the most important thing in your life is making the person you love happy," she explained, before lowering her head, and blushing slightly. Erik was staring at her intently. "I mean, that's just what I think. Like I said, I've never been in love, so perhaps it's different," she muttered ashamedly.

"That's what it is, Christine," he muttered. She sighed.

"Erik, have I upset you?"

"No. Not you, Christine, never you," he replied immediately. She frowned.

"Well then _why _are you so –"

Erik gave a long sigh and ran a hand through his dark hair, before giving a small chuckle.

"I have been a little short with you recently, I think, Christine," he said finally. She scoffed.

"A _little?_" she exclaimed, then instantly turned pink to see his slightly annoyed expression. "Sorry," she muttered.

"No. Don't be, I'm sorry that I've..." he trailed off, unable to find words. She gave a soft smile.

"That's okay, really, Erik," she assured him. He replied with his own small smile, and nodded, before reaching for her hand, and softly running his thumb over the small bones beneath the surface of her ivory skin. He tenderly kissed her fingers, before returning her hand.

"Alright, we'll try it again, and I promise not to get angry with you," he swore. Christine gave a small, timid smile, and nodded as Erik began playing the accompaniment.

"Do we have to have lessons today?" Christine questioned petulantly a few hours later as they stepped into the library after lunch. Erik chuckled as she dramatically threw herself down on the settee. "I'm tired. And I hate learning," she declared, peering over at him through stray chocolate curls. Erik hid his amused smile as he selected a large volume of history.

"You can read this. Start with the third chapter, it's about the Elizabethan rule in England," he instructed, passing her the heavy book.

"Is this weighted with gold, or lead?" she questioned with a frown, sitting up and pulling the book onto her lap.

"Knowledge."

"Hmm. Can't I sleep, instead?" she asked hopefully. Erik gave a small snigger.

"No. I won't have you turning ignorant and stupid under my care," he scolded lightly.

"I'm already stupid. Can we go down to the beach again? It's a nice day," she pointed out, glancing out the window to the warm, crashing ocean outside.

"No. You're being ridiculous, you know the rules, Christine," he said sternly. She sighed, and rolled her eyes playfully, reclining back on the settee. Erik's eyes flickered momentarily to the curve of her thigh as the skirt of her dress rode up slightly, his pulse immediately quickening.

"Oh really? Ridiculous?" she questioned with a quirked brow. He gave a small growl of frustration – she was so damn tempting! How easy it would be for him to pin her to that settee and slide his hand up her thigh to –

"Christine," he grunted with as much steadiness as he could, in an attempt to push those thoughts from his mind. "I'm in no mood to be toyed with. Read the third chapter and make notes," he commanded. She huffed petulantly and stood up, stretching her arms and rolling back her shoulders, rising to the points of her toes before returning to her usual height.

"Fine, but then I want to go for a walk. I feel like I've been cooped up for days," she declared, taking the book and strolling over to the small writing desk where she usually worked on her studies.

"Of course. But not until you've summarised that chapter – and because you were being so difficult, you can do the next two, as well," he scolded. She laughed and took her seat, unperturbed by his stern tone.

He was slightly startled to realise that somewhere along the line, she had stopped being frightened by him, and realised that she had him wrapped around her little finger. She was... _comfortable_ around him, and he seemed to have missed the memo.

_But still_, a sensible voice in the back of his head reminded him, _comfort and trust are two completely different things, and you're still not in a position to be pushing her_.

"Well then, it looks like we're going for an evening stroll, because this is probably going to take me until dinner," she commented with faint amusement.

"I should say so," he agreed, delighting with the little huff of annoyance as she pulled open the heavy volume.

He held to his promise that evening after their repast, but after she dashed upstairs to fetch a cardigan and some walking shoes, Erik couldn't help but wish that he hadn't.

He was in a torment. Daaé had said nothing about falling in love with his daughter – but he could hardly imagine he would be particularly pleased with the idea. But that matter aside (particularly considering that Erik didn't really give a damn about what Daaé's wishes were, by this point of his obsession), she was _seventeen_. And whilst he wasn't aware of the actual age gap, it was probably far too large for him to even consider. He just had to control his lust.

_But_, came that teasing voice, _is it just lust, or is it something else entirely?_

Erik sighed as she practically skipped down the stairs, a vision with her long brown locks, pale green frock and cream cardigan, a pair of white tennis shoes held in her hand. How could it possibly be anything else? He lived for her, he breathed for her; without her in his life he would have _nothing_. In such a short amount of time he'd begun to feel for her more than any human being in the world and it... well, it scared the hell out of him.

Eh bien, there was no point in denying it anymore. He was in love with Christine, and that thought sent his throat dry and his heart pounding.

"Careful, I don't want you hurting yourself again," he said sternly, steadying her as she almost fell down the stairs, and landed against his chest. She giggled, her cheeks flushing and eyes twinkling. His heart skipped a beat and he could feel his palms sweating.

"Erik, you worry too much. I'm _fine_," she insisted with a playful smile, before taking his arm. "Now come on, I want to watch the sun set!" she said eagerly, leading the way out of the castle.

He felt a familiar anxiety settle within his chest as they left the castle. What if she tried to escape? It had been his constant fear when they went down to the beach the other day, and he didn't think his heart could take it if she left, only when he'd come to terms with his feelings.

_But it's not like it's going to get you anywhere_, the annoying voice whispered in his ear. _She's young, beautiful; talented. She can have any man in the world, why would she want you?_

He repressed a growl of agitation as he pushed the thought from his mind. He didn't care – he would think of it at another time. For now he just wanted to bask in the glow of his feelings. He didn't need to act on them. He was in control, and as long as he had Christine close, he would be fine.

_It's been months since you've had a woman. There's been no one, not even paid company since she arrived. Can you really content yourself to a life of celibacy?_

He tightened his fist by his side and stared before him with determination as she began to pick wildflowers that grew by the cobbled path leading past the woods. He needed women. After having been denied any sort of physical contact for so long, he now craved it more than anything else in the world, and sought it within the arms (and beds) of women. But since Christine came there had been no sudden trips to the finer brothels in Paris, or visits from questionable ladies, nothing. And he was feeling the deprivation.

"Chrysanthemums. Aren't they so beautiful?" she sighed, scooping up a few and inhaling their gentle scent as she returned to his side.

"Hmm. I prefer roses," he said simply, hardly even thinking of his words. He was so distracted by the feel of her arm around his.

"So do I, but these are very pretty," she smiled, tucking one into the buttonhole of his coat. He couldn't help but give a tiny little smile, but her head was turned.

"I don't remember the last time I went for a walk at sunset. Must have been years ago," he commented thoughtfully. She glanced back to him in surprise.

"Really?" she exclaimed, and he nodded. She looked thoughtful, and was silent a few moments before speaking again. "Erik, before I came here, what did you do?" she questioned curiously.

"How do you mean?" he frowned slightly. She shrugged.

"Well, what did you do all day when we're practising music or having lessons?" she clarified. He shrugged.

"I... would play music, read, exercise, and I have a lot of business I must keep up with," he responded simply, after a short pause. She slowly nodded. "It wasn't terribly exciting. This is much more enjoyable," he assured her.

"_Really_? Having to put up with _me_ is more enjoyable?" she laughed doubtfully.

"Of course. You mustn't think that you're the only one whose life has changed over the past ten weeks, pet," he smiled. A slight blush rose to her cheeks, and she lowered her gaze, focusing instead on the handful of pink flowers.

"Why have you been upset with me recently?" she asked quietly. He blinked in surprise, unsure if he had heard her correctly.

"Pardon?"

"You were... angry with me these past two weeks. I was trying but you... well, you weren't exactly helping," she explained slowly. Guilt flooded him.

"It had nothing to do with you. I've just been... upset," he said simply, with a reassuring pat on the shoulder. She stopped walking.

"Erik, I think it's about time you told me what I'm doing here," she declared suddenly. He stopped, and turned to face her, determination flashing in her dark eyes. "I've been patient – _so_ patient, and I know it wasn't long ago that I brought it up, but it's been nearly three months now Erik, _three months_ and I still have no idea why I'm here," she practically pleaded.

"I can't, Christine. It's too soon," he insisted.

"Too soon for _what_? What could be so terrible that you can't tell me why you kidnapped me?" she questioned wildly, reaching out to clasp his large hands in her tiny ones. "Erik, _please_, I – I _want_ to trust you, but I can't until I know. So please, _please_, just tell me," she begged.

"What, and lose you? Have you turn away from me in disgust?" he spat angrily.

"You don't _have_ me as it is, Erik! I _need_ to know!" she objected passionately. He scowled at the path beneath his feet. He knew that he was running out of time to hide the truth from her. "Let's go back to the castle and you can tell me the truth. Because I _need_ to know, Erik, I need to know the truth," she pleaded softly.

Erik glanced around. It was darkening already, and even if she was disgusted she wouldn't try to escape after nightfall, she was naïve, not stupid. At least he would be guaranteed that she'd think about it overnight, a good twelve hours or so for her to consider what he now knew he had to tell her. She might even be able to look past it.

"Alright. We'll go back, but... it's a long story, Christine. I cannot tell you how I was involved with your father without explaining at least some of my past," he warned. She nodded in understanding.

"I don't care. And I _want_ to know," she insisted. He gave her one last wistful glance, before he too nodded and they headed back up the path.

It was Erik's study they took their places in. Christine had always liked it, it was dark and very masculine, but also made her feel... well, _safe_.

"Should I start a fire?" he questioned as they stepped into the room. It was actually quite chilly in there as the window had been left open all through the afternoon. She nodded, and curled up on the chaise as he closed the window and then moved to light the kindling in the fireplace. She stared at it a few moments as it slowly began to come to life, while he settled into the ornate armchair facing her.

"So... how did you know my father?" she questioned softly. He sighed, placing his elbow on the armrest and supporting the side of his head with his palm.

"He was a violinist in a company I worked for," he answered carefully. She frowned.

"What do you mean? If you met before –"

"I knew this would happen," Erik chuckled somewhat bitterly, before giving another sigh. "I told you on the first night we ate together that I didn't know my name, Christine," he reminded her. She nodded.

"Which means you must have forgotten it," she concluded. He lowered his head and turned away, staring out the window into the dark night. He did not speak for a few moments.

"It's one thing to have forgotten your name. But it's another to have never received one," he said darkly. Christine nearly jumped at the expression of his words. "I don't remember much of my first decade, Christine. I don't know if I blocked the memories on purpose or if I'd suffered some sort of blow to the head, but... one never forgets their _name_," he continued forcefully.

"You mean you think you never had one?" she asked carefully.

"There were a lot of things I doubt I ever had, Christine. A childhood, a loving home and parents who cared for me, those are a few of the things I certainly have no recollection of," he snapped gruffly.

"So... do you remember anything from when you were young?" she questioned carefully.

Erik winced as images flashed in his mind. The tall, dark haired woman looming over him, with anger flashing in her eyes and hatred in her screams as she dug her sharpened nails into his skin... the red-hot pain as the belt was brought down across his back again and again... the dark cellar where all he had to play with was the creations of his own mind... the cold, the pain, the anger, the hatred... if he had erased most of his first ten years then he could understand why. He could only remember a scarce few things compared to a lifetime, but they were enough to still torment him to that very day.

"Yes."

"But not your name?" she asked softly. He shook his head.

"I have no desire to discuss that part of my life, Christine," he murmured bitterly. She nodded in understanding.

"Of course, please, go on," she urged him. He sighed, wondering how to continue.

"I was with gypsies for a while, part of a travelling show," he shrugged, glancing to her, watching to see the disgust in her eyes. Gypsies were hated all over Europe, they were seen as filth; untrustworthy vagrants. But he saw no distain in those big, dark emerald orbs staring back at him.

"Can you tell me about that?" she asked softly. He shook his head.

"I don't think... no. I can't," he said firmly. More images flashed in his tormented mind, the jeers of crowds as he stood before them, naked but for a pair of tattered trousers, singing to them in his ethereal voice as they mocked him. He was the 'Black Angel' to them –_ l'ange noir_. And the gypsies beat him too – Javert would whip him and the other young boys, but you were lucky if a whipping was all you received. He shuddered to even consider recalling the ways in which his young body was violated by that _man_.

"That's okay. Just tell me what you can," she requested softly, gently, reassuringly. He gave her a weak smile that came out as more of a grimace.

"Once, when we were near Paris, I was... injured quite badly, and one of the gypsies decided to take me to see a doctor. The doctor was a woman, she tried to convince me to leave the gypsies when she saw the way they treated me and the other boys there," he continued, after taking a deep breath. "I didn't have the opportunity to act until a few months later, when we were somewhere near Budapest. I left them," he informed her, purposely disregarding the circumstances of his leaving the gypsies. She didn't need to know.

"What did they do to you there?" she asked softly.

"Things I hope you never have to go through, Christine. That's why I had to act," he snapped curtly. She winced slightly, but swallowed down her fear.

"Please, go on," she urged. He lowered his pale eyes in shame for having upset her.

"I was still young then. I found myself in a guerrilla army in Serbia, where they didn't need pretty boys with angelic voices, just men who could do as they were told and not give a damn, because they had nothing to lose," he muttered bitterly. "And from there I might as well have rejoined the gypsies when I and some more boys from the league were 'adopted' by a missionary priest. After that I drifted all over Europe, Asia, Africa, the Middle East, going just about whatever I could to make enough money to survive," he continued wearily, rubbing his forehead with his hand. "Some things weren't quite as honest as others. When I was with the priest I at least managed to learn, to educate myself. I studied architecture, music, 'magic'..." he trailed off with a twisted smile. "It was as if I could make everything disappear but –" he stopped himself.

"What?" Christine questioned softly. He shook his head.

"I left the priest as soon as I could. And then after I travelled, another opportunity arose, working for the wife of an influential diplomat. She was twice as powerful and connected as her husband, and probably could have controlled all of Europe if she wished," he continued, ignoring her question.

"How old were you then?" she questioned. He shrugged.

"Still only a boy, younger than you, but I'm not sure of my exact age."

"What did you do for her?" she asked curiously.

"Ahh... many things. It's... complicated," he answered with a slight chuckle. 'Many things' was quite the understatement. What was he to Amardad? A henchman? A court clown? A student? A teacher? A trinket? A lover? An assassin? A performing monkey? He was anything and everything that great woman demanded of him. "She had a number of people working for her, servants of the like, but I was her favourite," he informed her, somewhat smugly.

"Was it because of your voice?" she enquired, blinking her dark emerald eyes with inquisitive apprehension.

"That, and several other things," he answered carefully.

"Like what?"

Erik stared at her. He couldn't very well tell her that this woman made him her personal favourite because he was able to pleasure her like none of her other servants. The tiny, cheeky little voice at the back of his mind suggested he show her why he was that woman's favourite, but he resisted the urge to speak. He coughed slightly.

"Just... things. Amardad seemed to think that I had potential, so she made sure to extend my education, and I was designing buildings, writing operas, inventing machinery, almost everything I put my mind to from a young age," he shrugged. "Anyway, she was assassinated, and I was a suspect. So I had to leave," he continued. Christine raised a suspicious brow.

"And did they have any reason to suspect you?" she questioned. He nodded.

"Of course they did. But I didn't kill her, it was a political assassination," he replied with a hint of coolness, knowing what she was suggesting. "I'm a man without country, government or god. I had no reason to cause her harm," he explained somewhat curtly.

"Go on."

"I went to Paris. It was the only place I could think of, and tracked down the woman I met before. She agreed to help me as best she could, but I didn't want to be a part of the system. I didn't exist, and that was how I wanted it to stay," he continued. "But she remembered that I sang, and I was musical. She took me to her theatre where they needed stage hands, and thought perhaps I could convince them to let me sing and play with them," he explained. Christine nodded, eager to hear more. "But I didn't tell them I sang, I just told them that I could play a few instruments and I was strong enough to be a stagehand."

"Why?"

"Because. I'd been gawped at my whole life for what I possessed," he snapped. "I hope you will excuse my lack of modesty for a moment, Christine, but I have a certain musical gift," he declared gruffly. She nodded.

"That's an understatement. You're the most talented human being I've ever seen," she commented, and he hid a flattered smirk.

"Sometimes gifts are for sharing. Like yours. But there are some that... well, it's best to stay hidden in the shadows," he explained simply.

"I understand, but I don't agree. Please, Erik, go on," she begged of him. He sighed.

"Well, I remained there in Paris. I got to know the theatre better than anyone ever had before, I even made my own adjustments," he continued, still not meeting his eyes as he stared blankly into the fireplace. "I stayed there many years, working on my musical skills with the instruments they kept there, and I must admit, I did exploit the managers a little," he chuckled. 'Exploit' was a loose term. He terrorised them into producing his operas and collected the royalties without a care in the world. "Your father was in the opera orchestra, playing the violin. He was kind and polite to me, and got me out of one or two scrapes," he informed her with hesitation.

"And he was married to my mother, then?" she questioned quietly, to which he nodded.

"You were very small when I came to live in Paris, only one or two years old, but you soon outgrew a Parisian apartment and your parents decided to return to Switzerland to raise you properly. This was many years before I left," he replied. "Anyway, I heard that your mother died when you were about eight or nine, and I remembered Charles, his wife and child, and I decided to come visit. I needed to get out of Paris, it was too dangerous for me after... a few incidents," he explained, his voice somewhat strained. Christine frowned slightly in accusation.

"Go on," she urged, but warily this time.

"First I came here, and made this castle my home before I began to travel, and eventually made my way to Switzerland. I came to the village when you were ten, and met up with Daaé. He wasn't handling the loss of your mother well, but he wanted me to come live with you both, to teach you to sing. He said you had an angelic voice, it only needed training," he continued, with a small smile. "I said no, of course. I wasn't interested in being tied down, and I already had this castle by that stage, but I was willing to visit occasionally, and hear you sing. I was very impressed, and came to visit more often, which I suppose it what prompted Daaé to confide in me," he shrugged.

"Because he thought you cared for me?"

"He knew I didn't, not really, or for him, to be honest. He was aware that it was your voice I was interested in, as I don't like children, but that would be enough to keep me by your side," he answered simply, almost casually. He could see a flicker of hurt flash in Christine's eyes, but it was gone before he could contemplate it. "So... I stayed in Switzerland, not far from your village. I had been there for a few months before he decided to tell me about his diagnosis," he sighed, leaning forwards.

"What did he ask of you?" she questioned quietly, almost on the verge of tears.

"He... well, he wanted at first to rewrite his will and put you in my care. But it wasn't possible, I didn't exist to the government, and one cannot inherit a child without their own name," he shrugged almost wearily. "But he instructed me to always be a part of your life after his death, even if I wasn't your guardian. I was to visit you as often as I could, to teach you to sing, so you could one day be a part of the opera he once worked in," he explained with slight hesitation. "And... également, to keep an eye out for you until you until you were old enough to be placed in my full care. Most of all I was supposed to keep you safe," he informed her, his tone measured.

"Then why did I never know this?" she demanded angrily. He sighed.

"It would mean revealing his diagnosis, and he didn't want to do that," he answered calmly.

"I mean _after_ he died! Before I was sent to live with that – that _drunk_!" she cried, her eyes darkening with anger. Erik lowered his eyes with slight shame. "Why weren't you there like he said? Why couldn't you just _tell me_ that you were going to be looking after me one day?" she questioned incredulously.

"Because. I couldn't fulfil my promise at that time, and your voice was too young for me to do anything with. Not to mention the fact that I didn't know a thing about raising a child," he confessed quietly, not meeting her eyes. "I tried to find you after a year or so, but you were gone. I was trying to check in on you, to make sure you were alright and to see if I could begin teaching you, but I couldn't find you anywhere," he insisted. Christine swiftly rose to her feet, her head turned away, practically trembling with anger. "I swear, Christine, I _did_ look for you, but you'd disappeared, and it took me two years to find you again," he persisted.

"So this is why you didn't want to tell me? Because you broke your promise, and you were too _proud_ to admit that?" she demanded angrily, turning to him, her eyes wild and alight with passion.

"No, Christine, I – I had my reasons, and I did _not_ 'break' my promise," he assured her, rising to his feet. His voice was calm and measured. "But you're here now. You're safe now, and I won't let you go back to that life of poverty," he continued softly.

"I _hate_ you!" she declared angrily, tears spilling from her emerald eyes. "For _four years_ you knew he was going to die, and all you could do is wait around so you could have some new voice to play with!" she cried. Erik sighed shamefully. "He was my father! He was all I had, and I deserved to know! I didn't deserve to have him taken from me with no warning, how could you – how could you agree to plan my life like that?" she demanded, her cheeks stained with silvery tears and her eyes wide and full of hurt.

"He made me swear, Christine," he said gently, trying to step forwards and calm her. She pulled away.

"You – there are so many things wrong with what you did that I can't –" she stopped herself to release a cry that had been choked. It was like all the pain of losing him had returned to crush her beneath its force.

"I was to take you into my care when you needed me to, Christine," he muttered almost helplessly.

"I needed you three years ago when he _died_! I needed you when I was alone and scared and when I had _nothing_!" she cried angrily. "I needed you – a – and you weren't _there_!" she managed to get out, her eyes wide and afraid as she contemplated her own words. Erik felt his heart physically ache as she spoke.

Finally. Finally she trusted him, finally she had moved on from her resentment and fear and realised that she _needed_ him.

He murmured her name softly, stepping forwards. He enveloped her in his arms before she could resist, her head pressed against his chest and his grip tight around her shoulders.

"I was _alone_, and you knew that!" she wept, beating her small fists fruitlessly against him.

"I know. I know, and I – I'm so sorry, Christine," he swore quietly, stroking her hair back and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. She felt so warm and fragile in his embrace.

"Admit it! You didn't care about me at all, and you weren't interested until my voice was mature enough."

"I was wrong, Christine, but I care for you now, I care for you more than anything else in the world," he gently hushed her. He felt her stiffen against him.

"Erik, don't lie to me. Don't you _dare_ lie to me," she commanded shakily. He pulled back slightly, wiping away tears from her cheeks with his thumb, his thumb cupped gently to the side of her face.

"I'm not lying, _ange_. I wouldn't lie to you," he murmured softly. She lowered her head.

"After he died, did you intend on keeping your promise?" she asked finally. He did not reply. "Erik?" she questioned, raising her head to meet his eyes.

"I don't know. I – I only made that promise out of pity for a dying man. I – I know it's –" he sighed. "I didn't want you. I looked at you and I knew you were broken, I doubted that you'd ever sing again, and... that was all I cared about," he confessed with great hesitation. "I had planned to take you here after the funeral and complete your education myself, to be damned with what your father or the law wanted. But when I saw you I knew that – well, I didn't think it would be worth it," he finished finally.

"So that's all I am to you," she practically whispered, pulling herself from his arms.

"No, Christine, I swear, if I had known –"

"What? That I would sing again?" she cried accusingly, turning back to him with an angry, whitened face. "I'm more than a _voice_, Erik! You say you brought me here to save me from my old life, but it was just because I – I used to be able to sing and –" she stopped with a choked sob.

"Christine, you _know _you –"

"_No,_ Erik, I don't know _anything_ anymore!" she cried, once more stepping away from him. "Because I thought I was more than just – just some musical instrument for you to learn! But I suppose that just goes to show that I should never have trusted you at all!" she snapped bitterly. Erik strode forwards and gripped her wrist tightly to stop her from leaving the room.

"Christine, you _know_ that you're more than some instrument to me," he practically growled. She trembled, but said nothing, her head turned away from him. "Don't pretend that you don't feel this. I'm no fool, Christine, and your naïveté can only go so far," he continued, his voice low and loaded with meaning. He saw her cheeks flush, but still she didn't look at him. "I know that your mind still resists me, angel. I know that your sense of logic can't comprehend the fact that you no longer want to leave my home. But your soul, Christine, that is a very different thing," he murmured, stepping forwards when he was still denied a response.

She turned away from him slightly, but it only served to pull him closer. He pressed her back against his chest, and slid his hand down her wrist to entwine with her fingers. She shivered with his hot breath on her neck. He heard her sharp intake of breath as he placed his hand lightly on the curve of her hip, hidden beneath her dress, and gently nuzzled his nose against the nape of her neck.

"There is a darkness in you that you've been denying for far too long. I know it. I've seen it," he hissed against her skin, his lips almost burning as she trembled in his hold with the feeling of the length of his body pressed against hers. She felt shame burn her cheeks – what did he know of the darkness in her soul that she feared so? The smouldering, red hot flames that threatened to consume her with sin when she felt his pale, charcoal eyes sweep her body? "You and I are almost twins, Christine. We both feed on passion... do you think you could find that anywhere else? Could you live without it?" he rasped against her neck.

"I – It's wrong. It's a sin," she managed to whimper fitfully.

"I know you need me now, Christine. Admit that you need this darkness, that it's the foundation of your very being and it's damned well time that you gave in to it," he urged her quietly. She shivered again as he pressed his lips against the skin of her neck, his tongue darting forth to taste the ivory flesh. "Admit that you trust me."

"Erik, I – I don't know what –"

"Shhh. Christine, don't be frightened," he gently cooed. She gave a small sniffle. "I'm not going to hurt you, and you know this, Christine. I would rather die than harm you," he insisted with a firmness that made her tremble. "I speak of passion and darkness, but that's not all there is, Christine. Because you know that with me, you will always be safe, and... loved," he continued quietly.

She said nothing, but he could sense her fear.

"We'll talk about this in the morning, hmm? Once you've thought about it a little," he decided softly. She nodded, and turned into him. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, and smoothed back her hair. When she didn't say anything, he took the initiative and pressed a gentle kiss to her brow. She glanced up, and before he could stop himself, he lowered his lips to her pink mouth.

The kiss only lasted a moment, and it was decidedly too innocent for his liking, but it was sweet and... well, he'd never truly felt much when he kissed a woman, stirrings of arousal, perhaps, but with Christine... it was different, and he couldn't explain or understand. Perhaps it was his feelings for her? He'd never really felt for a woman, not loved one before, but the feelings that were coursing through his body – well, it was something to be reckoned with. And it was that darkness he had spoken to her of, that burning black stain that had formed his entire being from the first days of his existence, but was just beginning to awaken in Christine.

After a moment her mouth slid from his, and her dark eyes trembled to meet his. He gave a small, comforting smile, aware that he couldn't push her when she was obviously still quite upset.

"Go to bed, Christine. Tomorrow," he instructed with a small nod. She lowered her eyes almost fearfully, before slipping out of his grip and into the hall.

Erik sighed when she was gone, and traced his lips with his slender fingers, still feeling the warmth and sweetness of her mouth. He smiled.

Tomorrow.

That word was suddenly his favourite.

* * *

Christine shivered all over. Her mind was in turmoil as she ran to her bedroom.

_Erik kissed me..._

_Erik kissed me..._

_Erik kissed me..._

Other thoughts didn't seem to matter. The fact that he'd left her to be harassed and mistreated by her drunken cousin when he should have taken the place of her guardian didn't matter, the horrible things he had implied when telling her of his past, his secrecy with the truth about her father's last few years, none of it mattered at all, because he'd _kissed_ her.

And what was worse, she had enjoyed it. Her whole body tingled with strange sensations; it was an all-consuming fire that had suddenly taken over her. She'd never felt that way before, and with one little kiss he'd completely changed her... But at the same time, it was as if that kiss had awoken something that had been sleeping in the back of her mind for years, an ever-growing black stain that would sometimes consume and almost suffocate her with feelings that could only be sin. It was the darkness he had spoken of, and she had been resisting it all her life, but now...

She swallowed a sob as she realised that what she felt was wrong.

_How can you have feelings for him after all he's done?_ the rational part of her mind tried to question. She wanted to scream at her conscious to leave her alone; to let her feel some of that burning dark flame that was hidden away in the deep recesses of her mind, but it simply wouldn't let her. The more dominant emotion won over – fear.

"I have to leave," she said quietly to her empty room, leaning heavily against the closed door, practically trembling with the realisation.

Because she did. She had no other option.

She had to go.

**A/N: OH SNAP. YES, THE TRUTH COMES OUT. **

_**Finally**_**, a little drama! The next few chapters will be interesting, I can assure you, and we finally get a glimpse at the outside world. So please review!**

**-Evie**


	13. The Escape

Christine tried to push any thoughts of guilt or regret from her mind as she grabbed her ballet bag from beneath her bed. She knew what she was doing was right, it was the only thing she _could_ do. She couldn't stay, not after all that had happened over the past ten weeks.

She slid her watch from her wrist and set it down on the bedside table, feeling too guilty to take it with her. She wanted to write a note, but she had no idea what she could possibly say. Jammes would be heartbroken, but she had no other choice, not now.

She was deathly quiet as she tiptoed down the hall. She ducked behind the banister when the cook bustled across the foyer, but the oblivious woman went on, not noticing her presence. So she hurried downstairs and across to the garage entrance before she could be happened upon again, slipping past the door in silence.

She hushed the horses quietly as she crawled past them, avoiding the stable boy as he packed up for the evening. He was whistling to himself as he patted the last horse on its head, before pushing open one of the heavy stable doors.

Christine couldn't believe her luck as she managed to slip out behind him. He yawned and stretched out his arms, staring into the sea before him. Before he could turn to close the door she crouched behind the tack post, a large saddle concealing her position. He began to hum as he pulled on his coat. The night was growing chilly, and there was a cold front coming in from the ocean that sent shivers into Christine's uncovered arms. But she resisted the urge to scamper back into the castle for a cardigan, it was too late now.

She followed the boy in complete silence for about two miles before they reached the village. She hid herself a good thirty feet behind him, concealed by trees and shrubbery on the edge of the woods, the light of the moon and the reflection of the boy's white-blonde head guiding her. She felt a strange sensation fill her as she came in view of the village. It wasn't relief, as she had expected. She just felt guilty for what she was doing to Erik.

But she tried to push those thoughts from her mind. The boy disappeared into the first cottage of the small hamlet, which had yellow windows lit up like beacons across the ocean. She shivered as she slipped out of the trees. There wasn't much in the 'village'; several houses, a church, some shops and a school, further down the lane she could see a winding road leading probably to a wharf, where the villagers would fish for their living to send all over Europe. Further up the lane she could see blinking lights in the distance – probably a larger town, but the small hamlet would do for now.

She ignored the chorus of laughter and good spirits from the nearest building, which was probably a pub of some sort, and dashed over to a lone pay-phone by the post office. She couldn't see a thing in the small blue booth, but she scrabbled through her ballet bag for a few coins and slid them into what seemed to be the most likely receptacle. She pulled the phone up to her ear and began to dial the only number she could think of.

"_Allo, Raoul à l'appareil,_" came the familiar voice she had missed over the past two months.

"Raoul, it's me. It's Christine," she immediately babbled. She was met with silence on the other line for a moment.

"C – Christine? Really? Is that really you?" he questioned incredulously. She felt like crying.

"Yes, Raoul, it's me. I'm alive, I'm safe, I think," she assured him quickly, feeling tears forming in her eyes. She wanted to sigh in relief. Finally it would all be over!

"Where are you? What happened? What's going on?" he demanded instantly.

"I don't know where I am, South, I think, still in Europe. It's by the sea, and the maids speak French, but it could even be Italy or Spain, I'm not sure," she answered instantly. "I – I was kidnapped, Raoul, he took me from Paris ten weeks ago, I tried to escape but I – I just couldn't get out," she cried, feeling her whole body shake with tears she'd been keeping inside for months.

"Has he hurt you?"

"No, nothing like that. He's been looking after me, I swear, Raoul," she assured him hastily, horrified at the thought. Erik had a short temper, yes, and he was very used to getting his own way, but he would never hurt her!

"Who is he? I'll kill him!" he cried angrily.

"His name is Erik, I think he said it was Erik Danté, but it's not his real name. He doesn't have a real name; he doesn't really exist inside the system. A – All I know is he wears a mask, and he knew my father," she explained hurriedly. "I – I don't know much about where we are, or what's happening. He used to know my father, I think, and he wants to... well, I think he just wants to look after me, Raoul," she said quite honestly.

"Where are you calling from?"

"It's a public telephone, in the village a few miles from the castle. I can't see anything here, it's too dark, I don't know what the village is called," she practically stammered.

"Try to go into a shop and find out where you are, and then call me again. I'll be there as soon as I can, Christine, and I swear, I'll kill this bastard," Raoul said vehemently. Christine's mouth fell in shock.

"He hasn't hurt me, Raoul, he's been – well, he's been good to me, really," she defended.

"He's a monster, Christine, he stole you from your home and he has to pay for that," he growled in return.

"No! Raoul, he's not like that, he's been so gentle and caring and –" she stopped herself suddenly, aware that Raoul wasn't listening.

And the realisation hit her with enough force to make her tremble. Erik _had_ been good to her, he had been patient but firm at the same time, he had given her just about everything she could ever want and devoted his days to her education and her voice and her entertainment, he had been _wonderful_, and she'd not even realised! It was as if she didn't know the man she had been living with for the past ten weeks at all, not the _real_ Erik.

"I have to go. I've got no more coins left, I'll try to find out the name of the village and get some change, then I'll call you back," she found herself suddenly saying, interrupting Raoul's ranting.

"Call me back as soon as you can, Christine," he practically demanded.

"Of course. I'll only be a moment," she muttered quietly, before hanging up the phone.

She took a deep, shuddering breath and stared at the phone in horror.

What had she done?

**A/N: Yes, very short, but more drama to come!**


	14. The Return

"I have to go. I've got no more coins left, I'll try to find out the name of the village and get some change, then I'll call you back," Christine found herself suddenly saying, interrupting Raoul's ranting.

"Call me back as soon as you can, Christine," he practically demanded.

"Of course. I'll only be a moment," she muttered quietly, before hanging up the phone.

She took a deep, shuddering breath and stared at the phone in horror.

What had she done?

"I'm sorry, Erik, I'm so sorry," she whispered to herself, falling to her knees. She sniffled, and then, covering her mouth, gave a choked sob, her shoulders shaking.

She had betrayed him, after he'd been so good to her, it was only her fear for that darkness that had driven her away – and what was more, she didn't know the way she came from, so she was lost. She couldn't even drag herself back to the castle and beg his forgiveness. She shivered, and rubbed her shoulders against the cold wind blowing in, glancing around wildly. All she could do was find someone and ask.

Tentatively, she began to walk towards the tavern, which was alive with warm yellow light and cheerful voices. She trembled as she pushed the door open, light flooding her eyes. She blinked a few times, and stepped into the threshold.

She got one or two curious stares from some of the locals who had not seen her before, but she could recognise no one from the castle, so slowly made her way up to the bar. The room was quite full, with men, mostly, big and bulky men with beards and chuckling voices as they drank the night away. She wrinkled her nose slightly; it all smelt of alcohol and stale smoke.

"P – Pardon, madame, est _le château_ près?" she questioned tentatively, her voice hardly speaking above the raucous noise of the patrons. A tall, lean sort of woman with owlish eyes and mousy ringlets blinked at her curiously, taking in the unfamiliar figure.

"Yes, it is near," she answered, in an unfamiliar French accent.

"Uh – which way is it from here?" she asked, teeth tugging on her bottom lip. The owlish woman frowned slightly.

"Why?" she demanded. Christine gave a sigh of relief; the woman at least spoke French she could understand with little effort. "You're not one of the maids, they all know their way in from town. I've not seen you in these parts," she said suspiciously.

"I – I'm visiting, I went for a walk and got lost," she explained hurriedly. "Please, I need directions, a – and where are we, anyway?" she asked, growing frustrated at the woman's suspicion.

"Visiting, hmm? Alors, why don't you know where you are if you're just visiting?" she enquired, setting the glass she was drying down on the bench.

"Please, I – I need to know," she practically begged. The woman glanced up at something over her shoulder and frowned. Christine turned quickly, but saw nothing other than rowdy pub patrons.

"You look like trouble, little one, and I don't like trouble," she decided, before turning heel and heading up to the other end of the bar. Christine gave a sigh of disappointment, and glanced around.

"E – Excuse me, monsieur, but can you tell me –" she attempted, turning to a man sitting at the bar, wringing her hands nervously. She man turned sharply and smirked, glancing her up and down.

"Hullo here, little one," he greeted leeringly, grabbing a handful of her dress and tugging her towards him. She cried out and tried to pull away, his stagnant breath making her feel sick. "Come for a night out?" he questioned, swaying slightly. He was completely drunk. She pulled away, and slapped his hand.

"How _dare_ you?" she snapped, her face burning bright red. The man stared at his hand stupidly for a moment, before looking up, a scowl on his lips.

"You'll regret –"

"Don't you _dare_."

Christine shivered, but did not turn; she knew that voice too well to doubt it. The man instantly stopped and recoiled so quickly it was as if burned.

"Sorry, sir, I was just trying to –"

"I know very well what you were trying to do, monsieur, but if you value your life, I would advise you do _not_ attempt it again," Erik snapped coldly. The loud laughter turned to a quiet murmur as faces turned with suspicion to the bar. "Come, Christine, we're leaving," he announced, his hand closing tightly over her wrist. She found herself being pulled out of the tavern with haste, blinking as she was swallowed by the black night.

"Erik, I –"

"No. Not a word, Christine," he replied, his tone heavy and gravitating with force. She swallowed nervously as she was pulled across the cobbled square, seemingly in pitch black. She squinted, but could see nothing.

Before she knew it a car door was pulled open, and light flooded her senses once more.

"Get in," he commanded angrily. She shivered as she reluctantly slid into the passenger seat of a large black sedan, and the door slammed behind her. A moment later Erik climbed into the driver's seat, and she jumped as his door gave a loud bang. He did not start the car, simply stared out the windshield with determination.

Christine felt fear course through her. She had never seen him the way he was at that moment. It wasn't his words; it was... he practically radiated fury. He was almost trembling, and she had never been so frightened in her life.

"What do you need?" he finally questioned. Christine almost jumped in surprise.

"What?"

"I can drive you back to Paris, but what do you need from the castle? Clothes? Money? Do you have someplace to stay?" he asked, his tone measured and steady, but it sounded as if he was hiding some sort of strained emotion.

"N – No, Erik, you don't –"

"I have an apartment in the sixth arrondissement, it's yours, if you want it," he said, his voice quiet.

"What do you mean?" she whispered incredulously.

"It's very obvious that you don't want to be here anymore, Christine," he snapped. She winced. "I will let you go, but not unless I'm sure of your safety," he said shortly. She bit her lip.

"But I –"

"Please, Christine, don't say another word. I will take you back to the castle, you can pick what you want out of my possessions, and then I will drive you to Paris, if you can stand to be with me for the trip," he drawled bitterly, starting up the car. Christine stared at her hands, her mind in turmoil as he began to drive out of the small village.

What did she _want_? She knew she should be overjoyed to be finally going back to Paris, but there was this overwhelming feeling that was rising up in her, telling her... well, she didn't even know!

"Are you angry with me?" she asked quietly, after a few moments. He said nothing for a minute.

"No."

She wondered if he was lying, but didn't feel brave enough to ask him. She folded her hands in her lap and bit her bottom lip. She hated what was now between them, the tense, overwhelming feeling that she had failed him, that she had betrayed him completely.

"How did you find me?" she murmured, working up the courage to speak again. She turned her head to take in his features. He was... beautiful, really, but the tense line of his jaw and the narrowed glare of his brows were not a comfort to her.

"I had a feeling."

She sighed with the brevity and coolness of his replies. She wanted to cry, she wanted to be pathetic and beg him to forgive her, and she might have, ten weeks ago – but she had changed, somehow, since coming to his home. She was someone else entirely than the weak-minded, stupid girl she once was. He had changed her; he had awoken the spirit in her.

All too soon the castle reappeared, and the car slid into the garage. He was silent as he turned off the engine, with an air of wishing to say something, but waiting. Always waiting.

"I can have Jammes pack your things, if you would rather wait in the car," he announced finally. "After that I'll drive you back to Paris, I would rather you used my apartment there but I can understand if you... are not inclined to do so," he continued, when she did not respond. "Is there anything you wish to take with you?" he asked after another moment of silence.

Christine sniffled, and shook her head. She couldn't understand her own mind – everything in her was screaming not to go. She didn't _want_ to go back to Paris, she wanted to crawl into his arms and cry, just... _cry_. But she couldn't. She had to be strong.

"Please, don't go," she managed to get out as he moved to open his car door. He stopped himself, and glanced to her with a slight frown. "I – I'm sorry," she said suddenly.

"You needn't be," he replied quietly. "You did nothing wrong. It's perfectly understandable that you wanted to leave this place. You wanted to leave me, and now I'm giving you the opportunity," he said simply, still not even glancing at her.

"Do you want me to go back to Paris?" she questioned, surprised with how shaky and weak her voice was. Where was her strength?

"Do I want to lose my hands? Or my eyes? Or my – my _heart_?" he requestioned, his tone brisk with anger and bitterness. "Do I want to –" he gave an angry growl and pulled the car door open, storming out of the garage and back into the cold night. There was something magical about the way the slither of the white moon caught on the crashing ocean below, it bathed the trees and road and garden in lurid blue light and made Erik look positively wild as he thrashed around, like some sort of tormented beast, his mask glowing in the moonlight. Christine wanted to step forwards when she followed him out of the car, she wanted to calm him, to hold and comfort him, but the sight of his darkly flashing eyes sent shivers of fear down her spine.

"I'm sorry. I _am_ sorry," she said, as honestly as she could.

"Do you think I'm without _feeling_, Christine?" he demanded angrily. "That I want to watch you walk away and leave me, that I want to bleed inwardly until this damned curse you've put upon me can fade?" he snapped. She shivered with the coolness of the evening and the coolness of his tone. "I may be a monster, Christine, but even a monster such as I has a _heart_, a heart that doesn't deserve to be – to be _toyed_ with!" he continued wildly.

"But I didn't –"

"I've travelled the world, I've seen more in the past two decades of my life than a hundred men will see with a century to each of them, I've met with the darkest of people and dabbled with the blackest of arts, but _you_, Christine," he began, his voice hoarse and pained, his hand shaking as he pointed to her forcefully. "_You_ have bewitched me so much in these past ten weeks that all my life's achievements are nothing but child's play," he declared as his voice broke, turning to finally meet her eye.

She vaguely recalled herself crying and shivering like some pathetic thing as she stood before him.

"This is the ultimate betrayal, Christine. I _hate_ you for making me feel so much pain, but I can't hate you enough to stop loving you for reminding me that I am _alive_, and capable of feeling pain!" he continued, through gritted teeth. "And you – you just _stand there_, you're a child, nothing more than a child, and yet you've reduced me to _this_!" he finished bitterly, turning away from her in disgust.

"I'm sorry. But I realised that I – I didn't want to leave and I _tried_ to get back, I couldn't remember the way, Erik, I swear I couldn't," she insisted passionately. He said nothing, so she stepped forwards. "I – I went into the tavern to ask for directions back here. I have nothing in Paris, you –" she took a long, deep breath, and slid her small hand into his. "_You_ are all I have, Erik. You're my _home_, and I don't want to be anywhere else. Please, I know you're disgusted with me, but please, don't send me back there where I'll be miserable for the rest of my life," she begged quietly, her voice so soft she wondered if he had even heard over the howling wind over the beach.

"You think I find you _disgusting_?" he muttered incredulously beneath his breath, tightening his grip on her hand, so much that it nearly hurt. In one quick second, with a jerk of his hand on her arm, he pulled her to his chest and crushed his lips against hers, his spare hand holding tightly on her waist and pulling her several inches from the ground and closer to his chest as he assaulted her mouth, and she responded with fervour.

Before she realised what was happening, she felt the car bonnet against the back of her thighs as she was pushed against it, their lips still meeting in a crazed dance. Shivers ran down her spine as she heard him take ragged breaths against her mouth, his hands tightening on her hips. Her hands had a life of their own – they began at his collar and raked up into his dark hair, before dancing across his shoulders and chest.

"You haunt my dreams every night. I cannot _sleep_ with this... wanting," he muttered into her lips. With their foreheads pressed together, she desperately tried to catch her breath, well-aware that the sensation of his hand on her lower back wasn't helping to calm her. "It burns, Christine. This... obsession, it _burns_. The darkness I know is in you is _all_ of me – it's consumed me entirely with desire," he insisted firmly. Christine swallowed nervously.

"I – I didn't know," she muttered. He chuckled against her jaw.

"No, of course you didn't. And why would you?" he questioned, his amusement turning to bitterness. "You only see me as the old, hideous madman who stole you from your home and imprisoned you for ten weeks," he practically spat.

"No! Erik, _no_, I don't think of you like that!" she insisted, pulling away from him slightly. "I love you. I – I _love_ you, Erik," she said with conviction. He sighed wearily.

"No, you don't, Christine. You're too young to –"

"But I _do_!" she objected, her small hands reaching up to caress the sides of his face. "You – you don't understand how important it – it is to me to have a home," she slowly began, measuring out her words as if she were unsure of them.

"And you're confusing gratitude with love. Trust me, Christine, I know," he said firmly. She lowered her eyes and bit her bottom lip, sniffling slightly. "Come. We have to get your things," he muttered, pulling away from her.

"B – But _why_?" she begged, tears forming in her dark eyes. She reached out and pulled at his hand as he turned away.

"Because it was wrong of me to keep you here!" he growled angrily.

"Well I don't care anymore! I want to _stay_, Erik!" she insisted firmly, resisting his pull as he tried to shake off her grasp.

"Your thoughts and wishes are not your own, Christine; I've been manipulating you since you first arrived. When your mind is clear you will realise that this is for the best," he said pointedly.

"Is it for the _best_ that we both stay lonely?" she demanded. He growled in impatience. "You're so insecure, Erik, why can't you believe that I truly care about you now? That you _deserve_ to be cared for by another human being?" she questioned desperately. He stopped, and glared at her over his shoulder.

"I cannot comprehend why you try to see some good in me, Christine. I am _not_ a good man," he said, his voice low and loaded with anger. She shivered from the intensity of his flashing charcoal-blue eyes. "The fact that you're attempting to find some sort of lighter side of my nature is testament enough that you are _too young_ to know what 'love' is – you do _not_ love me, and if you truly knew me you would never be able to," he continued darkly. "Sending you to Paris is the best thing for you now. I will have Jammes pack your things, and drive you to my apartment the moment you're ready," he decided, once more pulling away from her.

"I hate you. I hate you!" she sobbed, desperately trying to tug him back, to stop his movements. He shook her off easily and stormed into the house, yelling for the staff to wake up and come to his assistance as she ran after him with tears spilling from her dark eyes.

"Madame Sorelli, wake your niece – tell her to pack Mademoiselle Christine's things, and fetch Giselle, she shall go with Mademoiselle to Paris and wait on her," he commanded, as the flustered, half-asleep housekeeper stumbled out of her bedroom.

"But – Master, Mademoiselle Christine does not seem to –"

"_Now_, damn you!" he roared angrily. The woman jumped in fear, and scurried off, ignoring the loud cries of the mistress as she beat her fists angrily against his back in protest. "Jammes! Pack all the Mistress' things – and anything else she wants. Go!" he instructed, the moment a night-gown clad Jammes slipped out of the hall. Pulling on her dressing gown, she scurried up the stairs with a white face.

"You can't just make me leave!" Christine cried angrily, wiping her damp cheeks with shaking hands. "Please! I'm sorry I betrayed you, but I _want_ to stay! _Please_, Erik!" she begged, her voice echoing around the grand hallway with both desperation and anger.

"_No_, Christine, this is the only way," he snapped, turning heel to the music room. She followed him, crying out her protests as loudly and desperately as she could.

"I'll stay as a maid! I'll clean or cook or – or _anything_, Erik, but please don't –"

"No! _No_, and that is my final word on the matter!"

"Why are you punishing me?" she cried out angrily as he pulled books of sheet music from the endless shelves on the walls of the music room.

"I'm not punishing you, I'm letting you free," he snapped curtly.

"I'll run away from Paris," she swore with conviction.

"You have nowhere else to go, you will stay put," he retorted. "I will give you my apartment, the services of Giselle, and an allowance that will allow you to continue to live in comfort. You'll want for nothing," he declared, ignoring her objections.

"I'll want _you_!" she cried, stepping forwards. He didn't even glance to her as he rifled through pages of hand-written music, searching for pieces they had worked together on. "I don't want to sit in some fancy apartment all day doing _nothing_, I want to stay with you in whatever capacity you'll let me!" she insisted.

"You're being stubborn, Christine," he scolded.

"So you really don't want me to stay? You kissed _me_, Erik, do you really hate me so much that you can kiss me and then send me away like this? You said th – the darkness that _I_ feel is a part of you, so how can you just walk away from it as if you despise me?" she questioned, fighting another wave of hot, angry tears.

"I love you so much that I can kiss you and set you _free_, Christine, because I know it's the right thing to do!" he cried suddenly, turning to her with his harshly blue-grey eyes, throwing the pile of sheet music at the floor in a fit of anger. "If I could have you in the capacity that I wanted you would be destined for a life of misery, and I will _not_ do that to you, no matter how much you resist!" he continued, almost weakly, his voice choked and laboured.

"I want to stay here, and you don't want me to go. _Please_, Erik, you know I'm stubborn enough to be miserable for the rest of my life if I have to live without you," she murmured, stepping forwards. He turned his head, but did not move.

"You don't understand what you're getting into. We're talking about a life of darkness and sin, Christine, your God is not merciful to people like me," he said quietly, but his words were as forceful as if he had shouted them.

"I don't believe in a higher being that is selective with his mercy for those who just want happiness. _My_ God doesn't condemn people for love," she replied simply, taking another step forwards.

"Things won't go on as they were before. They _can't_, Christine, not now that I've kissed you, that I've touched you," he added, sending her a meaningful look that sent a tremble right through her. "I'm not the platonic sort. I want you, and I won't deny it – it's too strong for me to deny, this stain. I want you, not just to hold and praise, but in my arms, in my bed, and I will attempt to lure you into it at every opportunity," he warned darkly. Christine felt her cheeks flush red, but she brazenly kept his gaze.

"Erik, I'll come willingly. Not yet, but... I don't know if I can really resist for much longer," she replied simply. He made some sort of low, guttural growling sort of noise and clenched his fist tightly. "I'm not going to try to leave again, Erik, I want to stay here, with you," she assured him, closing the gap between them.

Erik slowly slipped his hands around her waist, his eyes never flickering from hers before he pulled her close, and lowered his lips to meet hers. It lacked the force of their earlier kiss, but it was still enough to set every sense alight, until she could understand what Erik said when he spoke of 'burning'. There was something tentative about the way their lips met, but behind the nervousness was intent and determination, the combination of which left her breathless.

"Do you truly wish to stay?" he whispered against the corner of her mouth. It took a moment for the words to make sense to Christine, and she was only able to answer with some sort of murmur of agreement.

"It's all I want," she replied. He gave a lengthy sigh, and pulled away from her slightly, a pained expression on his face.

"I can hardly argue with you," he muttered with little conviction. "I'm never going to be worthy of you. I want you to know that now. My crimes will never disappear, but neither will... neither will this," he insisted, gesturing slightly to his mask. She nodded in understanding. His eyes swept up and down her body, but not in desire, in thought. "I want you to say with the upmost clarity that this is what you want. Because there will be no going back," he insisted.

She swallowed. "I want this. I want you. I – I'm sure. I know," she said firmly. He sighed, and then his hold tightened on her wrist.

"Madame Sorelli!" he called, almost tugging her out into the hall. The woman popped her head out of the hallway, looking very busy indeed. "Ignore my earlier instructions. Send Jammes and Giselle back to bed, Mademoiselle Christine is not going anywhere tonight," he commanded, his tone measured and steady.

Madame Sorelli gave a huff of annoyance, mixed with relief, and without a word, hurried up the stairs. Erik chuckled quietly before turning back to Christine.

"You frightened her," she said with a small smile. He rolled his pale eyes.

"Am I very frightening?"

"Yes, very," she laughed, her cheeks flushing as she shot him a tentative smile. "Earlier, did I misunderstand you, or did you say that you –"

"Yes. I did," he interrupted her, not meeting her eyes. She bit against her bottom lip.

"It's only been ten weeks," she pointed out slyly. He shrugged. "And yet you can't believe that I might –"

"Because you don't, Christine, you truly don't. One day, _if_ you fall in love, be it with me or with one of Moreau's young boys or my stable hand –" she laughed, and his eyes softened slightly, "You will know how ridiculous your claim was. Because you honestly do _not_ love me, not yet, at least," he explained. She sighed.

"I can't convince you, can I?"

"Come. It's late," he said, after a short pause. She made to object, but he only led her up the stairs in silence.

"Oh, Mistress, I'm _so_ glad you're not –"

"Yes, yes, Jammes, go back to bed," Erik said briskly, when the eager-eyed young girl left her mistress' bedroom, her bustling Aunt following behind.

Jammes didn't look insulted, only relieved, and scurried down the stairs, hiding a yawn. Madame Sorelli shot them a wary glance before she disappeared down to the hall. He didn't say another word as he led her to her bedroom, but the warmth of where his hand was placed lightly on the small of her back, leading her down the hall, was enough to make up for any conversation.

"I won't be angry if you change your mind in the morning. Go to sleep and think about what you want, Christine. I'll speak to you at breakfast, and we can make any necessary arrangements then," he said finally, stopping before her bedroom door.

"I won't –"

"No, Christine, in the morning," he objected firmly. She huffed, but could see the amusement in his eyes at her disappointment, turning her pout to a small smile. "Bon nuit, my dear," he murmured against her forehead, pressing a light, chaste kiss to her brow. She tilted her chin and caught his lips in a slow, nearly languid kiss that seemed to last an age. "Tomorrow," he said firmly, pulling away from her with a pained expression.

"Tomorrow," she repeated, trying to meet his eyes, but they remained lowered. "Erik, I won't change my mind," she said softly, leaning against her bedroom door. He sighed.

"Please. Don't build up my hopes, Christine. We will discuss this tomorrow," he decided firmly.

She reached for his hand, and pressed a small, soft kiss to his knuckles. His charcoal-blue eyes were locked onto her. Feeling a little daring, she allowed her tongue to just taste the skin there. He groaned, and pulled away.

"Christine, I cannot control myself if you do this. You must be careful around me, or I'll have you on your back before –" he stopped himself, his cheeks red. "Goodnight, Christine. Tomorrow," he said finally, turning away.

"Tomorrow," she whispered, before slowly closing the door to her bedroom, until she heard the lock click and she was alone again.

She was filled with a warm, bubbling yellow glow that made her as light as air as she readied herself for bed, unable to curb her smiles and giggles.

_Erik loves me! He LOVES me!_

She slid into bed with one last giggle before turning off the light.

Tomorrow couldn't come soon enough.

**A/N: Finally, they're together! Or are they? Hmm...**

**Anyway, there is much, MUCH more drama coming soon, so the next few chapters are the most peaceful you will read for quite some time. Enjoy it while you can!**


	15. The Red Scarf

Christine did not sleep well that night. She lay awake for hours, smiling, dreaming; unable to contain her happiness. Despite the scarce two or three hours of sleep, however, she was bounding out of bed the moment Jammes came into her room, eager to go down to breakfast and see Erik.

"You're so fidgety this morning, Mistress!" Jammes commented in surprise, as selected a dress for the day while Christine dried her hair, practically bouncing up and down.

"I can't help it, Jammes," Christine replied with a small giggle as she critically surveyed her reflection.

"I would have thought after all the commotion last night, you'd be exhausted!" her companion exclaimed, laying out a pale pink pinafore on the bed with a long-sleeved white blouse.

"It's quite the opposite, Jammes," she smiled, crossing the room in an attempt to keep from giggling. "You can go and have breakfast now, I'll be alright from here," she instructed. Jammes gave an annoyed huff that she was being kept out of a secret, but still smiled as she left her mistress.

Christine dressed quickly, but still took extra care with her appearance, winding her long dark hair into a loose side-plait and making sure to match her shoes with the pink of her dress and her stockings with the blouse. She hurried down the stairs and to the breakfast room, eager to see Erik after the events of last night.

The breakfast room was empty, save for the usual settings. Everything had been placed perfectly as it usually was, with a large supply of delicious looking food, but there was no Erik.

She sat down and frowned, wondering if perhaps she had beaten him to breakfast. But when the maid came in, informing her that the Master had to make a business trip that morning, and would not be returning till later that week, she came to the realisation that Erik was avoiding her. Clearly after the events of the night before he had changed his mind and realised he could never love a silly little thing like her, and it would be best if he stayed away.

She barely ate a thing at breakfast, wondering how she could have ever been happy a few moments ago, now that she was so despondent.

After breakfast she wandered around the garden and watched the fabulous coy swim around the pond. She attempted to practise piano a little but was unable to concentrate, before she found herself on the large window seat in the library, staring out to the ocean and the road on the edge of the forest that led to the castle.

She ran a series of endless questions through her head as she sat. _Does he not love me? Why did he leave so suddenly, without telling me? Is he still going to send me to Paris? Did he change his mind? Am I not good enough for him? _She was angry with him for making her feel so dreadfully confused. And she was angry with herself for being so dependent on him.

And so it continued for the rest of that day, and then the next, and the next, and the next, until it had been five days since she had seen him, five miserable days where she had for the most part, played dreary songs on the piano or sat in the library, waiting for him. She slept little, unable to lie in bed and put thoughts of _him_ from her mind.

On the fifth day she was quite exasperated with Erik's lack of consideration for her feelings, and lay curled up with a blanket and a book she simply could not concentrate on in the library, waiting for his return. The days were starting to grow shorter and colder, and dusk had settled early. She didn't even know she had fallen asleep till she was awoken by a soft hand on her shoulder.

She jumped in surprise and gave a small squeak, her eyes wide as she took in the figure before her. Erik smiled softly at her shock, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Erik! You're back!" she exclaimed, letting her joy overwhelm her exasperation for a moment.

"Hmm. I am," he replied with a small grin. Her eyes narrowed.

"But you were _gone_, for _five days_," she reminded him, her voice heavy with annoyance. He chuckled.

"You look absolutely adorable when you're angry, my dear," he informed her. She felt a slight tingling sensation, but ignored it.

"Where were you?" she questioned, sitting up and glaring at him. He sighed.

"I take business trips quite regularly, child. This was one I could not put off. I had to meet with my solicitor," he answered simply.

"Well why couldn't you _tell _me?" she demanded with a petulant scowl. She could see the amusement in his eyes, but his features remained impassive.

"I'm very sorry, Christine, but I had to leave before you had woken up and I could tell you. I instructed Grace to inform you of my absence," he defended, but she only rolled her eyes.

"You just wanted to get away from me, that was all, Erik," she muttered bitterly. He chuckled, and sat down on the edge of the window seat.

"Are you angry with me, angel?" he questioned with amusement.

"Yes! I was _worried_, I thought something terrible must have happened to make you leave so suddenly, or worse – that you didn't want to see me again!" she cried, wishing he could take her frustration with a little more seriousness. He raised a brow and continued to grin – nay, _smirk_.

"Well I'm very sorry, but I really couldn't overlook this business. Besides, I brought you back _des cadeaux_," he replied.

"Well I don't _want_ presents, and you should have left a note," she snapped, turning her head away from him and crossing her arms against her chest.

"Can you forgive me?"

"No."

Erik laughed, resting his forehead on her shoulder and chuckling into her cardigan. He slid further onto the window seat and wrapped his arms around her from behind, pulling her to his chest. She struggled slightly, but with no conviction, she'd missed his touch more than she could explain. Particularly when he pressed his lips against the base of her neck, suckling gently on the skin there till it flushed red.

"Et maintenant?"

"Still no," she snapped, her voice a little weak. Erik chuckled as he slid her woolly cardigan off, and gently started to pull her to a more horizontal position, before he leant over and caught her lips with his in a slow, yet still forceful kiss.

"Now?"

"Uhhh... n – no," she stammered, when he whispered against her mouth. He chuckled, and slid one hand down the side of her ribs, waist, hip, before resting on the side of her thigh as he kissed his way over her jaw.

"And _now_?" he questioned, his voice a whisper. She swallowed.

"M – Maybe you're forgiven," she squeaked. He raised a brow.

"Peut-être?"

"Oh – very well then," she huffed, before leaning forwards and catching his lips.

She was inwardly overjoyed with his return, and the wonderful way he was making her feel with the sensation of his lips on her neck. She was angry with him, of course, but how could she think of her anger when he was making her feel the way she felt at that very moment?

"I had an ulterior motive, however," he said finally, pausing his ministrations. It took a moment for his words to make sense to the now dazed Christine, who then frowned and met his eyes with confusion. He sighed. "I wanted to give you time to think about... this. But by the way I've greeted you, I suspect the past five days might have been for nothing," he explained quietly.

"It was. It was a torture to me. I wanted to see you," she insisted. He gave an apologetic smile.

"I'm sorry about that. It seemed the sensible thing to do," he replied, almost painfully.

"Hmph. Well it _wasn't_," she said pointedly. His smile widened, and one hand rose to gently caress the side of her porcelain face. "I'm glad you're smiling. You were so sad that night, even though..." her voice trailed off. He shrugged, and avoided her eyes.

"I knew it was very likely you would realise what you'd gotten yourself into in the morning and I would be... well, I wouldn't be able to handle that loss," he said simply. "I thought that if I returned and you had left it would be easier. But you didn't. You stayed," he sighed.

"Of course I did!" she insisted, as if offended. He gave a small, thoughtful smile.

"We should probably talk, you know," he said suddenly. She rolled her eyes.

"About what?"

"_This_. Christine, I'm not exactly the kind of man –" he stopped himself and sighed, sitting up, as Christine adjusted to rest her head on his lap, staring up at him with curious eyes. "I've said it before and I'll say it again. I'm not a good man, and I don't want you to fool yourself into thinking I am. I get what I want with little objection," he began slowly, running his fingers through her dark locks.

"You're not as bad as you think you are," she objected softly. "You're good to _me_," she reminded him. He smiled.

"Yes. Maybe you bring out the shred of goodness in me," he replied with a small laugh.

"Is this to do with –"

"There are moments when I'm convinced I can control myself," he interrupted, answering her question before she had a chance to ask it. "But they are few and far between. I _cannot,_ it's a Herculean effort and I haven't the strength to resist this... desire..." he trailed off, Christine's cheeks flushing. "You really shouldn't feel anything for me. You really should forget I was ever a part of your life and go back to Paris – I've done you no good," he sighed.

"You've done _so much_ good, Erik! I can sing again, and I'm happy now," she insisted. He chuckled, and smiled.

"Hmm. Perhaps," he replied simply, before leaning forwards and meeting her lips once more, only to pull away after a moment. She gave a huff of disappointment that earned her a chuckle. "I didn't bring you here to enter into this kind of relationship with you. I brought you here to sing, and I'm concerned that perhaps this is a very, _very_ bad idea," he explained.

"But?"

"But I'm selfish, and frankly don't give a damn. Christine, I honestly don't _care_ – and one of us certainly should," he said simply, running his hand slowly down the length of her arm and sending shivers through her.

"Well I don't care, and you don't care, so where's the problem?" she demanded, with an adorable wrinkle of her little nose.

"It's almost definite that one of us will be very injured by this, and it's more likely to be _you_, my dear," he answered after a short pause.

"I know you won't hurt me. Erik, I trust you."

To conceal his unseemly delight at hearing those words from beneath her beautiful pink lips, he crushed his mouth against hers without another care in the world. She trusted him – and that was all that mattered.

For now.

* * *

The sea air was crisp and cool as Raoul de Chagny stepped out on the cobbled path that led from his parent's Marseilles villa to the beautiful white beach. A tall and handsome chap for eleven years; he had high expectations from his parents to grow up to be a fine young man with a business empire beneath his wings in the next two decades, which he would run alongside his elder brother Philippe.

"Raoul! Be careful on that beach!" called his mother from the garden, where she sat with one of her many rich and boring friends, sipping coffee and discussing the latest trends in blouses.

Raoul ignored her cry and continued down to the shoreline, the paved stones soon being replaced with soft white sand, gulls flapping overhead. He smiled with the feel of the warm sun on his pallid face, the entire ocean stretching like a glorious blue-green blanket before him.

He frowned when the picture was somewhat interrupted with a flash of red. A silk scarlet scarf whipped across the dunes, carried by the soft wind so it danced and twisted over the white foam, before being captured by those merciless waters.

"Non! Mon écharpe!" came a pitiful cry of distress. He turned to see a young girl, no more than seven or eight years, rushing across the beach with tears streaming down her porcelain white skin. She wasn't French – Swiss, perhaps, and very pretty, with long chocolate brown curls and a lacy white sundress.

Before he knew what he was doing, Raoul rushed forth and stepped out into the waves, foamy water splashing around his trousered legs. He heard the girl cry out from behind him, but continued, until he plucked the soggy red scarf from the water, and turned back to her with a triumphant grin.

"Oh! Thank you so much!" she babbled quickly when he returned to the shore, the dripping length of silk held tightly in her white hands. Her dark emerald eyes shone with gratitude, making her look extraordinarily pretty in the summer sunshine.

"That's alright, really," he assured her with a smile. "I'm Raoul, by the way," he introduced, producing his hand. She tentatively shook it.

"I'm Christine," she replied, her cheeks blushing a very becoming shade of pink.

"Are you on holiday?" he enquired politely. She nodded.

"Yes, Maman isn't feeling well, so Papa thought the sea air would help her," she explained. He grinned.

"I live here in the summer. It's lots of fun," he replied, to which she grinned too.

"Do you want to be friends?" she asked curiously. Raoul was filled with a warm, golden feeling – he was glad she asked, he didn't think he would have had the courage.

"Definitely! Do you want to come meet my Mère?" he offered. She nodded and took his offered hand, running up to the villa with eager excitement.

And so a great friendship was born.

* * *

Raoul stared at the phone with conviction, convinced that if he even blinked he would miss her call. He bit his lip when he felt another wave of the nameless emotion that had been gripping him since she disappeared threatened to rise up in him once more, but it came to nothing. He was sobbing like a pathetic child when an hour passed – he knew she wasn't going to call. Something had happened to stop her. That _madman_.

He stared at the list before him that he had made while speaking to her.

_Still in Europe._

_Possibly south. By the sea._

_Maybe Italy or Spain._

_The maids spoke French. _

_What maids?_

_Thinks she's safe. 'He' hasn't hurt her._

_Who is 'he'?_

_Kidnapped, ten weeks ago. Took her from Paris._

_Eric. Eric Danté._

_Not his real name._

_Doesn't have real name._

_Doesn't exist inside the system._

_Wears a mask._

_He knew her father. Wants to look after her._

_Village, a few miles from the castle._

_What castle?_

_Dark. Night time. _

_Eric._

_Eric. _

_Eric._

He sighed, and leant back in his chair, staring at the list, trying not to seem _too_ pathetic. He'd been worried sick since she went missing ten weeks ago. He'd gone to the police first, but all they discovered was that a neighbour saw a dark Mercedes pull up before Carlotta and Piangi's home the night she disappeared. They didn't have an index or description – and his private investigator hadn't turned anything else up that the police hadn't already found.

He'd been beginning to lose hope before he received that call in the dead of night from a teary, but _alive_ Christine, when suddenly his brain was sent into motion once more. The only problem was that he still didn't have much to go on – where would it lead him?

Raoul sighed as he reclined back in his chair, glaring at the telephone by his bed as if it could tell him where she was. Since she'd disappeared he had taken to recalling all his memories involving Christine. They'd met in Marseilles years before, when they were both children, just before the death of Christine's mother. For several months she even lived with them, while her mother was dying in Switzerland. They remained pen pals despite the distance between them, and it was a complete accident they met again in Paris – he was investing in a theatre where she danced and sewed costumes. They became friends, as close as they were that long and beautiful summer on the Mediterranean. Even his brother Philippe and his wife had come up to Paris to visit her, and things had seemed so close to perfect.

He allowed himself a smile as he remembered all those little bickering arguments they would have when he demanded she quit her position at the theatre and live with him, or when he desperately tried to convince her to leave Carlotta's home and be free and happy, like she was that summer so many years ago. But it was always to no avail – she was independent, passionate and fierce; it would be a strong man to make her do anything against her will.

That's why he knew something bad had happened. Christine was determined to stick it out with Carlotta until a better position became available – she wouldn't leave, she was too strong. So something must have happened to make her disappear like that, and there was one name resounding in his head as he tried to explain to his frantic mind what might have happened.

One name.

Eric.

* * *

"Erik?"

"Hmm? Yes, pet?" he replied, glancing up from his laptop to meet his young lady's inquisitive emerald eyes.

"Can we go out tomorrow? I want to do something interesting," she decided, curling her slender fingers in a stray dark curl.

"And spending the day inside with me is not '_interesting_', my dear?" he challenged with a raised brow. She rolled her eyes and smiled.

"Erik, I haven't been outside for days! I'll go insane if I stay here any longer," she objected. An expression of faint amusement crossed his face as he turned back to his laptop.

"You're free to come and go as you please, angel. You can do whatever you wish tomorrow," he replied simply. He heard her huff of annoyance and was secretly overjoyed by it.

"_Erik_, please?" she pleaded, rising to her feet and strolling up to his desk. His eyes followed the gentle sway of her hips as she walked, before hazarding a glance up to her face when she sat down on the edge of the tabletop.

"It's most inconvenient that you have me wrapped around your little finger, you know," he muttered with a slight frown. She laughed.

"For _you_, that is. It's very useful for me," she smiled, leaning forwards and pressing a kiss to his lips, to which he responded eagerly.

It had been a month since he had returned from his 'business trip', and Christine couldn't recall ever being happier than she was with Erik by her side. She felt exhilarated but grounded at the same time – it was exciting and new but also stable. She felt like she could jump and he would always catch her, and she couldn't be more grateful for that combination.

Things hadn't changed as much as she had originally feared. They still followed their usual routine – breakfast, music, lunch, lessons, dinner and the evening was for relaxation and time spent close to each other. Often Christine would curl herself up on the settee and within a quarter hour Erik would have joined her, and they simply lay there, talking and kissing and touching. She couldn't remember being so happy since her father had died – and even then, moments of joy were few and far between.

When the beautiful and talented Aina Daaé passed away, leaving a husband and child, a part of Charles Daaé, the _best_ part, it seemed, also died. Their home, which was once filled with love, laughter and happiness, turned quiet and sombre. Christine had turned to her own imagination for her amusement, but nothing her mind could create was as thrilling as the sensation of Erik's lips on hers.

He leant further forwards, sliding his hand down from her shoulder to her waist, before toying with her hipbone as he assaulted her mouth with his. All coherent thought instantly fled her mind; Erik had the ability to render her senseless with one kiss. In fact, just about _everything_Erik did would render her senseless – his hypnotising voice, his intense, pale blue and charcoal eyes, his music, his hands, everything about him was loaded with some sort of unnameable magnetism that drew her in like a moth to the flame.

But, to Erik's credit, she _did_ enjoy teasing him, if only for that flash of challenge in his eyes, and the delightful feel of his kisses. They sent shivers through her with the thought.

The first few days since his return were clumsy, filled with blushes, tentative pecks on the cheek and a great deal of awkwardness. But after a week of nervous silences, Erik, in a fit of impatience, pulled her in for a very passionate embrace in the middle of the music lesson. She had proudly inspected the bruises of the keys against her back in the bathroom mirror the next day – the sight of them thrilled her. Since then they had returned to their routine, but there was no more tentative discomfort, and each day things grew more and more comfortable. She blushed down to her neck when she recalled the night before, in fact, as she contemplated the progression of their relationship.

It had been rather similar to that same night, after a light dinner they had moved to the study, Christine read while Erik tapped away at his computer for a full hour, before he finally joined her on the divan. Their kisses began slow and loving, before increasing in purpose and intent as the clock ticked away. She had allowed him to pull the skirt of her dress up to the top of her thighs, and still trembled with the feel of his warm hands sliding over the smooth ivory skin. He had eased down the side zipper covering her ribs and slipped his free hand into the gap, drawing invisible patterns over her side with his slender fingers. She had been thinking of it all day with a combination of emotions – she knew his purpose, from her position it wasn't difficult to detect the manifestations of his desire, and the whisper in her ear sounded rather suggestive, although she wasn't sure of the language.

She was a mixture of fear and longing to know what he had said. After all, he _had_ warned her over a month ago that he would try to lure her into his bed – and he was true to his word. She had laughingly knocked back many attempted seductions over the past few weeks, but she felt her resolve wearing thin. She was not yet sure of her emotions – did she love him? Could she allow his attentions if she did not?

"What did you say yesterday?" she questioned breathlessly against his lips. He gave a small grunt, as if to acknowledge that he had heard, but had no interest in responding. He slid his hands around her waist and pulled her into his lap. "Erik?"

"What?" he practically growled, moving his lips to her jaw. She swallowed back a gasp.

"Last night, when we were – well, you – you said something. What was it?" she attempted to explain, but her breath hitched on every other work and she wasn't sure if he even heard.

"I don't know, I was a bit distracted, angel," he replied shortly, with a tone that suggested he was currently too distracted to answer. She slid her arms around his neck, and his lips moved just beneath her earlobe.

"It was like... puter... putar... dea... or something," she probed. He paused his ministrations for a moment, and buried his head in her neck.

"Oh. _Oh_. Uh – you don't want to know," he assured her, his voice suddenly grave. He frowned, and then set back to work, making her insides turn to jelly with his firm kisses.

"But I do!"

"No, you don't. You _really_ don't," he assured her, slowly leaning her back so her head rested on the desk, and her back arched upwards, allowing him to kiss his way down her neck freely. She gasped as he gently grazed his teeth against her collarbone. But, steeling her resolve, she pushed him away.

"Tell me."

Erik let out a low, wary groan. "You won't like it," he assured her.

"Just tell me anyway, then," she demanded. He gave a sigh, as if he were quite sure he knew he was doing something he shouldn't and moved his lips against her ear.

Christine's eyes widened as he finally answered her question. It was a little more than suggestive.

"I wasn't thinking. It was just a spur of the moment," he defended, her cheeks flushing bright red. She immediately slid off his lap and set about straightening her dress. "Christine, I wasn't trying – it was just something that slipped out, I didn't mean it," he insisted. "Well, I – I _did_ mean it, but I – damn. I told you that you didn't want to know," he grumbled bitterly.

"I think I had best go to my room," she squeaked, her face flushing bright red.

"It's only nine o'clock, Christine," he reminded her. She nervously bit against her lip, unable to meet his eyes.

"I... uhh..."

"Let's just pretend I never said something so ridiculously inappropriate, please? We'll do whatever you want tomorrow. Please, Christine, don't go," he begged. She wringed her hands together anxiously, before taking a tentative step back to the divan. She sat down, still refusing to meet his eyes, and with trembling fingers opened her abandoned book. Erik sighed deeply with frustration. "I suppose I'll just sit here and pretend I'm working then," he muttered bitterly.

Erik knew he shouldn't have said anything. He had hardly remembered speaking at all; a few words of the gypsy language he'd not used for years had just slipped out as he kissed her the night before. He should have pretended it was just a pretty way to say 'I love you' or an affectionate pet-name. He enjoyed being affectionate with her – she would have believed him. But he didn't like lying to her.

However, over the past month, it had become quite difficult to resist the urge to voice his desires. Each day their kisses seemed to increase in intensity, and although he had made many less-than-innocent suggestions over the past few weeks that she come to his room for the night, only to be knocked back with a smile or laugh, his comment had pushed the boundaries. He didn't _want_ there to be boundaries, he loved her and he wanted nothing more than to be able to show it to her in a decidedly physical manner, but she was, after all, only seventeen. He tended not to think in years, having lost so many of them to begin with, but still, seventeen was _very_ young. She wasn't ready yet. He could feel it.

But he could also feel that it wouldn't be long before she was. He didn't _want_ to push her, but dammit – he didn't think he could wait.

"I'm sorry, Christine. I don't want to keep you if you're tired," he said suddenly. Christine glanced up, her face still red with embarrassment. "We'll go into town later. Until then, I will be busy. I trust you can entertain yourself?" he continued. She nodded warily. "Excellent. Then I will see you tomorrow," he said finally, turning off his laptop and rising to his feet. He walked past her and bit her good night with a simple kiss on her cheek, before leaving the study, and heading straight to the music room.

It had been pulsing in the back of his mind since their kisses began. That heavy drumming, it was sultry and seductive – like a tango. He had been wary of committing it to paper, knowing it might not live up to his expectations, but it was precisely the hint in the right direction she needed. All he needed to do was compose it.

* * *

It sent a strange, sinful feeling through her as Christine contemplated that whisper in her ear. She couldn't even repeat it in her own mind, so strong were the images it conjured. She didn't _want_ to think about it, because she knew it must be wrong to think of such things, it was said time and time again in her bible and all her prayer books, and yet... and yet she didn't want to purge her mind of such sins.

She rolled over in bed for what felt like the hundredth time that night, but still she could find no comfort. She was annoyed with Erik for making her such a tumult of emotions, but when she thought of him her entire body was alive with that tingling sensation that his kisses and dark, sultry whisperings conjured.

She felt like she was dancing at the edge of an abyss, and in the chasm she would be claimed by those dark, stirring emotions. She was drawn to them, but her mind screamed for her to be responsible and stay on the safe green grass.

Feeling utterly confused and entirely too tempted to climb back out of bed and slip into Erik's room, Christine rolled over with a small sigh, and allowed herself to slip into slumber.

**A/N: Can I just say thank you to everyone who reviews this and is so kind to me? You're all lovely. Really. Every one of you. **

**And yes, Raoul will be a part of this. A big part. Be prepared, my dear readers, because things are going to get interesting pretty soon...**


	16. The Informative Woman

"Vicomte de Chagny, there is a woman to see you, monsieur," came the brisk voice of one of the many maids in an endless line of staff at the Chagny manor in the centre of Paris.

"Yes, Aurélie, send her in," he muttered, hardly attending as he flicked through the morning paper. It was his ritual, every morning he ran through as many papers as he could, every story that seemed even slightly related to his search. He sighed as his eyes passed over the now familiar advertisement. He had placed it a month ago, and paid for it to appear in every paper every day, but still no news, no one to tell him of the mysterious 'Eric' or what he was doing with _his_ Christine. He was beginning to doubt himself whether or not she could be found – but that didn't stop him from trying.

"Monsieur? Monsieur Vicomte de Chagny?" came a questioning voice from the doorway to the elaborate sitting room where Raoul sat at a small breakfast table, scanning the papers with his morning _café au lait_.

"Yes? Who are you?" he frowned, glancing up. She was a smart looking woman in perhaps her late forties, if her dark blonde hair streaked with grey and the fine lines around her glassy blue eyes were any indication. She wore a stylish, if not matronly black dress and opaque stockings with sensible black shoes. She had the body of a dancer, small, slender and yet defined by muscle, with impeccable posture. Even the way she stood, with two small feet in _le premiere _position, showed that she was, or at least had been, a fine dancer. There was something stern about her overall appearance, but Raoul took little notice of this – he was trying to scan his memory for any recollection of this seemingly unknown woman.

"My name is Giry, Monsieur, Marie Giry. I am here because of your publicité. I saw the advertisement in the paper many weeks ago, and I have been trying to will myself to come here, to speak to you," she began, her voice crisp, if not weighted with emotions. Raoul felt a spark of hope flare in his chest, but then again, he had been disappointed by people only seeking rewards before.

"Then you know something of this 'Eric'?" he questioned eagerly. She nodded, and produced a copy of a newspaper that was some weeks old. His advertisement was circled in red ink.

"I know you have spelt his name wrong, monsieur. He spells it 'Erik', with a K. I do not know the origins of this name," she informed him dutifully.

"Please, do sit down, would you like some coffee? You must tell me all you know," he begged, instantly urging her to take a seat. Tentatively she took a place at the breakfast table, and accepted a cup of coffee he poured her from the pot.

"Thank you, monsieur. I do not know of how much help I can be, but... well, I'm quite certain we are speaking of the same 'Erik'," she began, her voice a curious mixture of guilt and relief.

"Madame Giry, I would appreciate any help I can get. I have very little information at present, and I fear for my friend's life," he replied, the strain of the past few months wearing on his voice. The woman nodded in understanding, and opened her bag. She produced a small, very weathered envelope that was yellowing at the edges, indicating its age.

"I met Erik many years ago. He was a part of a gypsy show that travelled all over Europe. He was very young then, only eleven or twelve years," she commenced, her dulled blue eyes tracing the outline of the envelope with the air of one remembering. Raoul listened eagerly. "I know very little about his _histoire_. He spoke many languages quite efficiently, and had a curious sort of colouring, but with the most amazing blue-grey eyes. This is a photo of him from when we first met," she informed him, passing a small Polaroid picture. Raoul grabbed at it excitedly, eyes tracing the image before him. "He was injured, and I persuaded him to allow me to take this photograph, but he only allowed it if his head was turned. I knew he was being abused by the gypsies, but there was nothing I could do," she explained.

"Was he a gypsy boy?"

"No, monsieur. It is a curious thing. He has the _allure_ of a nobleman. The turn of his head, that defiant scowl – he could have been royalty. I thought so again when I saw him, many years later," she continued, taking the photo back from Raoul with some little effort. "He came to Paris a few years after I first met him. I had tried to persuade him to leave the gypsies, but he knew he could not. I don't know what happened to him over those years after he left them – and I sometimes think I do not wish to know," she muttered, with a small tremble.

"Please, go on. I must know," Raoul urged her keenly. She took a long sigh and sip of _café_ before continuing.

"I could not help him, because he had no name and no past, but I was able to secure him a position at the theatre I worked in, _le Palais Garnier_. I was the _prima ballerina_ then, but now I am the company doctor, and I choreograph the corps," she continued, her hands quivering slightly with the force of her recollections. "I should never have done it. But he needed work, and I thought the theatre would be good for him. He has a gift for music, monsieur, like I have never seen before. It is incredible, his voice, his talents – I thought he could sing for his keep, but he was a strong lad, and wished to pull ropes instead," she tutted, smoothing her black dress over her bony knees. "He lived in the theatre, but not in the dormitories. I knew he did, but not where. He never told me. I tried to find out once – that is when I discovered the devil he truly is. Over the years he was at the theatre he exploited the managers, forced them to produce _his_ operas, which were, genius, I must admit, and did very well for profits, but he took a large sum from each showing," she added. Raoul nodded.

"So he is wealthy, now?"

"Very much so, but it's not honest money, monsieur. It is stained with blood," she scowled, pulling forth another picture. "Is this your young woman?" she questioned, passing him another picture. It was some sort of family photo with a beautiful little four or five year old girl, being held by two smiling parents. He recognised Charles and Aina instantly, which meant the child could only be his Christine. It was strange. She seemed so like the young girl he had first met on that beach in Marseilles.

"It is! It _is_ her! Oh, where is he? Where has he kept her?" he cried animatedly, nearly jumping up from his chair.

"Alors, monsieur, je ne sais pas. I can only tell you more of what I know," she answered, almost ashamedly. With a stab of disappointment, Raoul sunk back to his chair. "This was sent to me many years ago by my friends Aina and Charles Daaé, they worked in the theatre. They left a few years after Erik arrived, but they were friends, at least as friendly as is possible to be to Erik. So it is possible Christine Daaé knew Erik, monsieur," she theorised.

"She said he knew her father! Alors, it _is _him!" he gasped, eyes lighting up with anticipation. He was close, so close now he could almost smell Christine's perfume!

"That is what I feared. Monsieur, he is not a good man. I know he has killed, and I know he is possessed by some sort of devil. He's evil in its purist forms," she replied gravely. Raoul felt a sense of dread grip him.

"Do you think he could have –"

"He is honourable, if it makes sense, but he is violent and has a horrific temper. But I've never heard of him hurting a woman," she assured. Raoul nodded, but his face was still a few shades paler. "If he has her, monsieur, I can only hope for her."

"Madame, you have given me more information than the police and my private investigators combined. I am forever grateful to you – but we will still have a long way to go before we find Christine safe and well," he replied, trying to keep his temper stable. The woman nodded.

"Of course, monsieur. I have known Christine since she was a baby, you know, but she will not remember me, she didn't recognise me when she came to work –"

"Yes, she was a costume girl there. But it's _Erik_ I want to hear of," he demanded. Madame Giry nodded.

"Bien sûr. I will tell you all I know, monsieur. I want Christine safe too."

"Let us just pray we can bring her home swiftly."

* * *

Christine didn't see Erik much for the next two weeks. Apart from their lessons he seemed to be buried in the music room, and hardly said a word. He still kissed her and occasionally met her for meals, and there was no warmth or love lacking in his embrace, but she could tell he was distracted.

She was worried for the first few days that she might have disappointed him by not being ready for his advances, but she recognised his behaviour. It was easy to tell he was composing, so she revelled in the free time she had to wander the castle or the grounds, or to practise music by herself while he was so busy. She _did_ miss seeing him as much as she had grown accustomed to, but she felt like she needed the time to consider her feelings for Erik. She was coming to love him. It was coming on so slowly, but there was a surety there that helped her feel grounded when her world was spinning around her.

She didn't feel ready to progress their physical relationship. She wanted to love him before she did – and she wanted to be sure of it. She was no fool, she knew they could never marry, but her love for Erik was stronger than any deity. God had been her shepherd and her guardian, but Erik was the earth beneath her feet, the sky above her and the air she breathed. Erik was _everything_. There was no longer room in her heart for anything but _him_ – she could never love any god as she loved Erik. But still she was not sure.

After two weeks of his erratic behaviour she finally descended to the breakfast table, only to be joined by Erik a few minutes after she'd broken her croissant. He appeared, looking freshly showered, but there were dark bags beneath his eyes, and he had not shaved in the two weeks he had been working.

"Erik, did you sleep at _all_?" she exclaimed, after he greeted her with a light kiss on the cheek. He gave a wry smile as he sat down.

"No, not last night, I'm afraid. And very little these past two weeks," he replied, reaching to pour himself a cup of strong coffee. "As I'm sure you already guessed, I was composing."

"You really should get more sleep, you look exhausted," she advised with concern. He laughed.

"You know my habits, angel. Don't worry yourself," he calmed, reaching for her small hand and pressing a soft kiss to her fingers before returning it.

Christine was concerned, but not worried. She had seen him 'composing' before. He often spent nights without even going upstairs, he would play the piano or the violin til his fingers bled, and even then some more until he was satisfied. It was erratic and unusual, but it was Erik.

"I thought we could do a little shopping today. There's about a half hour drive away with some pretty dress shops, if you're interested," he suggested.

"You look like you should be sleeping."

"I can sleep later, pet. We can go after lunch, the fresh air is just what I need to keep me alert," he decided with a smile. Christine bit gently against her bottom lip, but nodded. A day out was just what she needed, it would refresh her, and it had been a while since she'd gone shopping. It was only for Erik that she was concerned.

She dressed for town quickly after breakfast, and met Erik by the doors to the garage. He kissed her cheek, complimented her dress, and led her to his big dark 4WD, still looking utterly exhausted, but very pleased with himself. He requested that she tell him of all he had missed over the past two weeks, when he was so busy with his music, and she filled him in on Jammes' antics and Madame Sorelli's extreme dislike of the summer heat. He smiled and nodded, but said little.

"Erik, we shouldn't have gone out today. You should have slept, you're obviously exhausted," she scolded finally, when they started to approach the town. He chuckled, and slowed the car.

"I'm fine, angel."

"If you run us off the road because you've fallen asleep at the wheel, I'll never talk to you again," she warned. He gave another laugh.

"I would never risk you, my dear. Alright, we've arrived," he declared, coming to a stop and turning off the engine. Christine still frowned with concern, but did not say anything as she slid out of the car.

It felt... unusual, to say the least. The village was larger to the one she had managed to escape to so many weeks before, it was a very sweet little provincial town, with cobbled roads winding around the _centre-ville_, marked with a large sparkling fountain. She spied several restaurants, bistros and cafés, a few boutiques, a post office, a _patisserie,_ and all around people were smiling and laughing and shopping. She felt so strange to be amongst people once more. After all, it _had_ been four months since Erik brought her to his home, and in that time she had been exposed to very few new faces.

In fact, she felt... overwhelmed. She was suddenly incredibly self-conscious and nerves tingled through her body, she was alight with paranoia. What if someone recognised her? Was anyone looking for her? She wanted to climb back into the car and leave. She didn't like it. She wanted to go home.

_Home_.

How long had it been since she had begun to contemplate the castle as being home? She had never thought of Carlotta's townhouse as 'home', or the dormitories for the theatre, or the living room settee of her cousin's dirty, tiny apartment. 'Home' had always been that beautiful old villa in Switzerland. But now home was somewhere different.

"It's alright. I'm here," came a soft, gentle whisper. She sighed as she felt Erik's warm presence behind her, and slid her hand into his. He raised it to his lips and pressed a small kiss to her knuckles, before leading her forth with a comforting smile. She relaxed instantly. With Erik she would always feel safe.

"So where are we going? What are we doing?" she asked curiously, her eager eyes taking in the sights and sounds of the town.

"Anywhere you wish, my dear. I need more manuscript paper and ink, and the new strings I ordered last month should have arrived by now, but this will all only take a few minutes," he assured her. "There are plenty of dress shops for you here, if you would like. And there's a rather nice bookshop, in case you were interested," he offered. She smiled.

"That sounds lovely. You have a lot of books, Erik, but I'd like to see if I could find some of my favourites from when I was still in Paris," she decided, allowing him to lead her up the road.

And indeed, the bookshop was rather nice. It dealt with books new and old, but the small information card by the door boasted that it was particularly good at the finding and selling of rare volumes. Christine still felt strange to enter it, but her fear disappeared when she spied a copy of her favourite book on a staff recommendation table.

"Howl's Moving Castle?" Erik questioned with a slightly curious frown. He picked up the beautifully bound edition.

"I had a copy when I was a child, but I lost it. It's hard to find it, particularly in French," she explained with a shrug and a slight blush. He chuckled.

"Don't _blush_, my dear. If you want this book, you shall have it. Have a look around and see if you fancy any others while you're here," he urged her, placing the book in her slender hands.

"Erik, I have money enough to –"

"No, my dear. Pick whatever you wish and I'll buy them for you, and they'll only cost you a kiss," he replied with a smirk, glancing to her lip with rather obvious intent. She felt her cheeks burn once more.

"Erik, you really don't have to –"

"Nonsense. You have a look around, I'll just be next door for a moment," he smiled, pressing a small kiss to the side of her temple and leaving her.

Christine felt... frightened. It was so strange, after having Erik near to her for so long, for him to be suddenly gone, although he was only in the next shop. Her heart raced as she walked around the bookshop. It was really very beautiful, larger than she had expected, with books lining every surface and piled up on every spare inch of ground. There was a large window with strong yellow light streaming in, it caught all the dust in the air from the aging volumes and gave the room an almost... mystical appearance. But she still felt very strange to be walking around, occasionally other customers smiling politely at her.

She wondered if they knew who she was. She was sure Raoul had been looking for her – or had he given up? Not that she wanted to leave Erik, but she _did_ wish there would be no more secrets. She wished she was not still the 'kidnapped', and she could call Raoul and tell him she was alright.

"May I help you?" came a polite questioning from behind. A tall gentleman of his mid twenties or so was smiling warmly at her. He obviously worked in the shop – there was something about the way he held himself.

"Oh – uh, no, umm, I'm just having a look around," she managed to get out, her cheeks flushing brightly. He grinned, his dark eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Are you new around here? I haven't seen you in here before, and I think I'd remember the face," he flirted playfully, stepping forwards and leaning against the wall.

"Oh, uh, well, I live about a half hour's drive from here, actually," she answered with a shrug, feeling suddenly rather self-conscious.

"On the coast, or are you further inland?" he enquired curiously.

"Oh, just by the sea," she blushed, hoping he didn't ask for the name of the town. She had no idea – she didn't even know the country!

"How long have you lived in the area?" he questioned, taking another step forwards. He seemed to be quite the charmer – were it not for Erik she might be quite taken by him, but he paled in comparison to Erik.

"Not long, a few months."

"And you must be from Switzerland. I can tell by that accent," he laughed. She felt herself smiling.

"Yes, but it's been a few years since I was there," she explained, glancing over her shoulder. She felt rather uncomfortable, and wished Erik were there with her.

"I'm Jean-Clement, by the way. My father owns this shop, but I do most of the work around here," he introduced with a playful twinkle of his eyes.

"Christine. And I don't have a job, but I do like books," she replied. Jean-Clement laughed.

"Well, I like books too. Are you searching for something in specific, or are you just browsing?" he asked, glancing at the volume in her hands.

"Well, uh, actually, there's a few books I was looking for, you might be able to help me," she replied with slight hesitation. He beamed.

"Of course! I'd be happy to assist you, Christine," he grinned.

He spent the next ten minutes helping her track down a few of her favourites, and advising a few others as they went. Jean-Clement was rather funny and quite sweet, but for some reason Christine felt... guilty. Erik seemed to her to be quite a jealous man, and she didn't know how he would react to see her laughing with a strange man.

But Erik knew how she felt about him, she reasoned, and he had no reason to be concerned. Erik was everything to her – she'd _never_ betray him.

She ended up with five books in her hand by the time Erik returned, with a wrapped brown package that was sure to be manuscript paper, and probably the strings for his violin, too. She smiled at him as he approached, but his attention was fixed on Jean-Clement.

"Christine, I see you've managed to find a few books to take your interest," Erik smiled, perhaps a little warmer than he would have before company. He was rarely affectionate in front of his servants – but something seemed different.

"Oh, yes, Jean-Clement has been helping me. I've found my favourites, and he recommended another to me. We don't have it already, do we?" she questioned, showing him a small paperback. Erik shook his head.

"No, _ma chérie_. Are you done, or would you like to look around a little more?" he questioned gently, sliding his hand down to entwine his fingers with hers.

"Oh, I think so. Thank you very much, Jean. You've been very helpful," she smiled, turning back to the young man. He was frowning, his eyes glued to Erik's mask.

"Christine, you know this man?" he questioned quietly.

"Of course I do. This is Erik, I mentioned him to you, remember?" she reminded him politely. She felt a small twinge of guilt – she had not corrected him when he assumed that Erik was her father or brother, not... well, whatever he was.

"Oh. I must have misunderstood," he muttered with slight bitterness, strolling over to the counter, still glaring at Erik, who paid for the books in silence. "À bientôt, Christine," he said finally, as Erik wound his arm around her waist.

"Oh, I don't think so, _gamin_," Erik practically growled, leading her out of the shop. All the weariness had disappeared from his face, and was replaced with a pronounced frown. Christine couldn't help but giggle as they left the shop.

"You're _jealous_," she smiled. He huffed.

"Of course I'm not, child."

"Yes you are. After all, Jean-Clement is rather handsome..." she trailed off teasingly. His hand tightened at her waist.

"Christine, it's taking all my strength not to storm back into that bookshop and rip that boy's arms off. Do _not_ test me," he growled. She felt a small thrill run through her – he was so easy to rile up!

"Hmm. So you are jealous?"

He gave a slight splutter and muttered something in that language she didn't understand. "No."

"I think you are."

"Well I'm not."

"Then why do you want to rip Jean's arms off?"

"I – I'm not discussing this," he snapped, quickening his pace, but they did not seem to have any particular destination in mind.

"I think it's sweet. That you're jealous. After all, it just shows me –"

"Christine, please. Can we not discuss this?" he demanded curtly. She stopped her ramblings. There was a coolness to his tone that had not been there for some time.

"O – Of course, Erik. I'm sorry," she muttered, suddenly feeling rather ashamed of herself. Erik sighed.

"I am jealous. I admit it. I'm jealous of everyone and everything that comes near you. You are very lovely, my dear, and until you are mine, I rather doubt I'll be able to control my jealousy," he concluded, stopping their march. She frowned.

"Erik, of course I'm yours. You're the only person I care about," she assured him with a warm smile. He shot her a dark, meaningful glance.

"That's not what I meant."

She felt another shiver run through her spine, only this one made her weak at the knees. Her cheeks flushed bright red but she did not look away from him. She swallowed nervously.

His meaning was perfectly clear. He did not have to spell it out, and she didn't think she could take it if he did. She was a mixture of emotions at his words – but her fear and anxiety came swimming back to her.

"Well, uh..." she trailed off, before clearing her throat and looking away. "Erik, I don't feel..." she tried to explain, well aware that they were in the middle of a crowded village, passersby glancing at them in curiosity. "I'm not ready, Erik. I'm not ready."

"_When_?"

She sighed. He sounded impatient, and she knew he was but it was just... so _hard_! She was terrified – not of Erik but of... well, she didn't even know _what_ she was afraid of!

"C – Can we talk about this later? At home? Please, Erik, I don't feel comfortable here," she begged. He nodded, and moved his hand to the small of her back, leading her across the village square to where his car was parked. She felt... drained. It was quite a big deal for her, after so long hidden away in the castle, to be just another nameless face in a crowd. She had a suspicion she would have to take it slowly.

He said very little on the drive back. She told him about the books she had selected, and he nodded, occasionally saying something in return, but it was usually just a monosyllable.

"You look tired. Perhaps you should get some sleep," she suggested, when he pulled into the garage by the house. He gave a long, slow sigh.

"I'd like to talk."

She bit her lip but nodded, and slid out of the car. He followed her to her room as she went to put away her new books, sitting on the edge of the bed in wait for her to leave her sitting room. By the time she had taken off her cardigan and shoes he was already lying on the bed, half asleep. She wanted to laugh at the sight.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather just go to bed?" she questioned with a smile, sitting beside him. He muttered something and slowly sat up.

"Hmm. I can manage," he yawned, before shifting so he could lie with more comfort, his head against her pillow and his hands folded over his stomach.

"Erik, you're exhausted!" she laughed. He frowned.

"Hardly. I'm fine, angel," he assured her, his eyes flickering closed. She gave another small laugh, and moved to the end of the bed, pulling out a spare blanket from the long cushioned chest, and slid off his shoes. "What are you doing, child?" he questioned with a frown, opening his eyes slightly to peer at her.

"You're absolutely exhausted. You're going to sleep, Erik, I won't have you falling over unconscious in the hallway," she scolded. He rolled his eyes as she pulled the blanket over to cover his form.

"Only if you stay here with me," he replied simply. She blushed.

"Erik, I don't think –"

"I promise I won't try anything you don't want, Christine," he assured her with a gentle, comforting smile. She bit her lip thoughtfully, and then nodded, allowing him to pull her back to his chest, his arms wrapped loosely around her waist, pulling the blanket over to cover both their forms. "Alors, my love, I think there's a few things we need to discuss," he sighed, shifting to find a comfortable position.

"Can't we just sleep?"

"Christine, please. I want to get this over and done with," he replied simply. She sighed, and nodded. He smoothed back her dark hair with one smooth hand. "Now, please, tell me what's going on," he requested gently.

Christine took a long breath. "I feel... Erik, you are _so_ important to me, more important than anyone has ever been, and my feelings are so hard to understand but –" she stopped herself, thinking over her words. "I'm scared. I'm frightened about..."

"Making love?" he offered with a small chuckle. She blushed, glad he could not see her bright red face, and buried her head into the pillow.

"Yes," she admitted, but it was quite muffled.

"Are you sure it's just your anxieties? Are you sure it's not –"

Christine waited for him to continue, but after he released a long slow sigh she realised he was not going to.

"What? What do you mean, Erik?"

"Me. My face. Or what's left of it," he muttered finally. She turned quickly in surprise. He was not looking at her, but rather at the ceiling of her four-poster bed with determination.

"Erik, you're beautiful!" she cried immediately. He scoffed.

"Forgive me for objecting, Christine, but I am most certainly _not_. Particularly not in comparison to... to..." he trailed off with a sigh, and turned his head slightly to meet her eyes.

"To who?"

"To _you_, Christine. You've grown to be an impossibly beautiful young woman and it's – well it's not hard to... see why this Jean-Clement fellow of Moreau's nephews or my damned stable boy – who is half in love with you, you know, fawn after you like puppies," he muttered with a low growl. She giggled.

"You're being ridiculous. They don't –"

"Christine, as delightful as your personality is and as clever as –"

"I'm not –"

"You _are_ very clever, my dear, you just don't know it yet. You have a heart of gold, my love, but it's not your heart that young men are interested in," he warned. She laughed against his shoulder.

"Like in that book I got today. It's about a Wizard, and everyone thinks he eats pretty girls' hearts," she smiled. He moved his hand to gently stroke invisible patterns on her waist.

"Hmm. Well, that's one way of putting it," he muttered. "Christine... you must be careful. When a beautiful and naïve young woman comes along, men can be cruel beasts with strictly carnal desires," he warned. She nodded slowly.

"But Erik, I don't care about other men. It's _you_ I care for. And I find you very beautiful," she assured him. He grimaced slightly.

"Christine, you needn't lie. I know my curse better than anyone."

Christine's hand gently stroked the uncovered side of his face, before moving to the edge of his mask. His hand went immediately up to stop hers from doing anything drastic. "I only want –"

"No. Never. You are _never_ to touch the mask, Christine."

There it was again. That coldness that sent shivers right through her – it was something incredibly frightening about his tone and it almost caused her to shrink away in fear. She swallowed, and moved her hand away.

"I'm sorry."

Erik sighed, and muttered something beneath his breath that sounded like a curse.

"No, I am. I'm a horrible man. But – I just can't, Christine. I cannot let you," he said simply. She nodded in understanding, but in truth she _didn't_ understand. Why did he wear that mask? She took a breath and steeled herself to ask a question she knew she probably shouldn't be asking, but did so anyway.

"Erik, why do you wear –"

"No, Christine. You will not ask me about my mask," he said coolly, interrupting her question before she could even ask. "It's not something I have any desire to discuss. Please, if you care for me at all, don't bring it up again," he added curtly.

"Well would you still care about _me_ if I wore a mask? Erik – it doesn't matter to me!" she insisted emphatically. He did not reply. "Well, clearly not. If you're so vain then I suppose you just don't love me," she practically sniffled when the silence became too much for her to bear. His hands tightened on their loose grip of her.

"Christine," he began, his tone quiet and steady, but loaded with severity. "You will never question what I feel for you again. I've never loved another human being. There have been very few people I've even liked. All I have goes into loving you, so there's nothing even left for myself. If you wore a mask for the same reasons I wear this mask, I would still love you – but I would weep because I'd know what happened to you, I would know the pain you suffered and I couldn't handle that," he continued, as calmly as he could, but his voice was hinting at desperation.

"I can't handle it. I can't handle thinking someone might have hurt you, but it's harder to be separated from it. I feel as if I don't know you sometimes," she whispered into his shoulder, screwing her eyes tight so he could not see her tears. He gave a long sigh.

"One day, Christine, I will show you. But not for a long time yet," he murmured quietly. She lifted her head slightly, to see his eyes had fallen to a close, and his breathing was slowing.

He looked... beautiful. From where she lay she couldn't see the mask at all, and there was no denying that he was very handsome. His features were almost mathematically perfected. She slid forwards and pressed a light kiss to the side of his neck. He turned into her slightly, and moved his hand to lie on the small of her back.

"Erik? I know I can't handle it, but I still... I want to know. I want to know more about your past," she requested quietly. She felt him tense almost immediately.

"It's not something I talk about, Christine."

"I know, but... please, Erik, I just want to more about you," she pried gently. He turned his head away slightly, to which she responded by pressing a small kiss to his jaw. He gave a long, lengthy sigh.

"What do you want to know?" he murmured, so quietly she might not have even heard.

"Tell me about the gypsies. What happened with that man you mentioned?" she enquired almost immediately. Erik winced slightly.

"I was a performer. They made me sing for the crowd," he replied simply.

"Is that it?"

He didn't answer for a few moments, before finally shaking his head.

"For the most part they simply... gawped at me. Threw things, and Javert, that 'man', however loose a term that is, would sometimes beat me to please the spectators," he shrugged, as if it was something he no longer thought of. As if it were no longer a part of his life. Christine tightened her hold on him.

"I – Is _that_ all?" she murmured, almost hopefully. Once more he shook his head. "What did he do to you?"

"I wasn't the only boy there," he sighed slowly, before closing his eyes. For a moment he looked as if he were sleeping, but spoke rather suddenly. "If you were good, you only got a beating. If you were bad, as I often was in my youthful impertinence, there were things much worse than that," he muttered quietly. Christine trembled slightly.

"Do you mean they –"

"I told you the first night you dined with me that I would never rape a woman, Christine. I would never force myself on you against your will," he began, his voice strangely calm. "Because I would never wish what I had to go through on any other human being, except, perhaps, Javert, and that pathetic excuse for a man of the cloth who did the damned same thing when I escaped that travelling freak show. I was a child, a young boy; I must have only been about ten or eleven. That's why I feel my actions in response were justified," he said simply.

"What happened?" she questioned hastily. He shook his head.

"Another day, Christine. I don't feel up to discussing it," he sighed warily. She nodded, and wiped tears from her dark eyes.

"I'm so sorry for what happened to you," she sniffled against his neck. He gave a bitter smile and held her tighter.

"It was a long time ago. I don't think of it," he assured her, before stifling a tired yawn.

"You should sleep. I'm sorry if I've worn you out, making you discuss things you obviously would like to forget," she whispered apologetically into his jaw.

"Mm. Probably. But we're not finished talking yet," he reminded her. She sighed. "So – what is it you're afraid of about coming to my bed?" he asked finally, after a moment's silence.

She shrugged. "I'm not sure. I – I suppose of... well, disappointing you," she admitted very quietly. He gave a faint smile, and leant over to press his lips to hers.

"You could never disappoint me," he whispered. She bit her lip against a smile, and nodded.

"I want to stay with you forever, Erik, if you'll have me. So if we have forever, I'd like to wait a little longer. I just – I don't want to regret anything," she murmured. He gently stroked her dark hair back from her face.

"I understand. And if you're willing – then we have forever. I couldn't imagine giving you up," he assured her, with another soft kiss to the side of her cheek. "Christine, what do you want?" he questioned, his voice soft against her skin. She sighed.

"I don't know. You."

"Not what I meant, angel, but the sentiment is appreciated," he chuckled lightly. She shrugged.

"Well what did you mean?' she enquired curiously.

"Obviously you wouldn't want to spend the rest of your life in this castle, only leaving for civilisation every few months," he smiled. She bit her lip thoughtfully. "Have you thought about joining the opera theatre?" he questioned. Christine gave a lengthy sigh.

"Yes, actually. I never thought I would sing after... father, but my voice is stronger than it's ever been, and I think one day, I might like that," she answered thoughtfully. Erik nodded, his hand moving to smooth back her dark curls.

"When you're ready, I would not be averse to moving to Paris so we can pursue your singing career. Your voice is perhaps too young yet, and I am not satisfied that it's the best it can be, but maybe in another year, or less," he replied with a slightly muffled yawn.

"We would live in Paris?"

He nodded. "Wherever you wish. But I have connections with a theatre in Paris that would be idiotic not to take advantage of your talent," he informed her with a slightly smug grin. Christine rolled her dark eyes.

"Liar. You just want to show off how good a teacher you are," she accused. His smirk grew slightly.

"Perhaps. Now, my dear, as much as I want to continue this conversation, I suspect I'm about thirty seconds away from unconsciousness," he muttered quietly, his eyes fluttering to a close. Christine smiled and sunk back into his arms, listening intently as his breathing slowed. She could feel his heartbeat against her back – it was so thrilling and so strange, the closeness of their bodies.

As she drifted into slumber, she couldn't help but think that it was how things were supposed to be. She was _supposed_ to be in Erik's arms as they fell asleep together.

She didn't care about Paris or joining an opera theatre – her thoughts were too consumed by Erik's 'forever' to even contemplate it.

**A/N: So, only two chapters away from the end of the first volume, which means you're in for a LOT of angst. Savour the smiles while you can!**


	17. The Persian

"You should drop the seventh."

"I am _not_ dropping the seventh!"

"Erik, it sounds discordant!"

"It does _not_ sound discordant – you're being ridiculous," Erik snapped pointedly, glaring at Christine from across the piano. She scoffed and rolled her emerald eyes.

"_You_ are being stubborn."

"I am _not_ being stubborn! You don't know what you're talking about! Go to your room!" he commanded angrily.

"You _know_ it sounds discordant, stop being so sanctimonious, Erik," she retorted, placing her hands on her hips and sending him a fiery glare.

"Dammit, woman! I've been composing music since before you were even thought of!" he growled angrily, glancing up to her with a scowl.

"Erik, drop the seventh and play the octave, it sounds _better_," she snapped.

"No."

Their eyes met, both flashing in anger. Christine's glare narrowed and Erik's breathing quickened before he growled a brief 'damn you, woman' and reached for her arm, pulling her to his lap as he crushed his lips against hers.

That was how it had been for the past two weeks as they worked on Erik's newest composition, 'The Point of No Return'. It was an incredibly stressful process – particularly as Erik refused to show her the lyrics.

"I'm working on them," he would always tell her. So she had to content herself by singing 'la' on each note, when all she wanted to do was sing that song with him. It was so... _powerful_ and passionate, even without words. The beat was heavy and seductive, but the most incredible thing was that it was the same as the beat of Erik's heart – and she could tell that heartbeat anywhere, after having slept with her head against his chest more than one night.

After their revealing conversation two weeks prior it was as if something had shifted. Once or twice Erik would find some excuse to sleep in her bed, but be gone before dawn back to his own room. She wished she would be able to wake up to find him next to her – but she would have to wait. And she couldn't talk to him about it, because he was always so busy with either the song or the new opera he was composing.

"Can you tell me what it's about?" she asked one evening as she slipped into the music room to find Erik experimenting with an electric guitar and a violin being fed through an amp.

"One day, love, I'll show you," was all he would reply, before smirking, and busying himself once more with his work.

She suspected it was one of his subtle, maddening attempts to make her feel more comfortable with him. On days when he was so busy with his opera he barely had a moment to speak to her she would find him sliding beneath the sheets of her bed at the dead of night, and shushing her with a soft kiss to her lips. It was driving her insane – but in a very, _very_ good way. She was beginning to desire those nights more than a young woman really should. In her own way she _did_ love him, but his mysterious behaviour over the past two weeks... in every way she wanted him.

She gasped against his lips as he tugged insistently at her cardigan, and in one quick swoop pulled it from her, his mouth instantly moving to the exposed skin of her collarbone. Her hand scrambled over the keys of the piano as he pressed her back to it, before burying themselves into his dark hair.

Most of their music lessons seemed to end in kisses and bold touches. It was as if the music empowered both of them, and Christine could never get enough.

"D – Do you really have to go?" she gasped against his temple. He grunted something inaudible against her shoulder.

"You know I have to," was all she could make out a moment later.

"But why tomorrow?" she demanded, her voice hitching with every second syllable with the sensation of his hands sliding slowly down to her hips.

"I've left it too late already, angel," he reminded her, his voice muffled as he trailed a line of kisses up to her mouth.

"Do they really need you there? Can't they fix it themselves?" she frowned petulantly. He sniggered slightly and pressed his forehead against hers.

"Yes, they really _do_ need me there. My investors are rather inept," he replied, fighting a smirk. Christine gave an irritated huff and wound her arms around his neck.

"But _I_ need you _here_," she sighed. Erik's smirk turned to a small, soft smile.

"Well. That's very pleasing to know. But it's only two weeks," he reminded her, smoothing back one dark lock. She rolled her eyes and frowned.

"It's two weeks too long. Stay."

Erik gave a tired sort of groan and leant his head against her neck, breathing in her delicate scent.

"You know very well that I can't deny you a single thing, so please, don't ask me to stay. I have to go, but I'll be back soon and I promise I'll make the wait worth it," he swore with a playful little smirk. Christine huffed and finally nodded. "Good. Now the discussion is over – no more talking," he decided firmly, leaning forwards to take his lips in hers once more.

Christine smiled against his mouth.

The 'soon' she promised him had just become a great deal sooner. She felt... ready.

She loved Erik.

Now she just had to tell him.

* * *

Raoul tapped his ring against the arm of his chair with the air of a very impatient man. He glanced to the clock above the mantle – Marie Giry was now over an hour late. He gave a frustrated growl. They'd already rescheduled their meeting several times over the past week, and he really couldn't wait any longer for her 'findings'. He didn't even know what that woman was doing – she was supposed to be helping him, dammit! And now all he had to cling to was a sense of impending uselessness. It had been months... what if he never found Christine?

He refused to let his mind wander to such thoughts as he flicked open a book sitting by his chair and stared blankly at the words. He _missed_ Christine, which was perhaps the worst of it. He missed seeing her every few days, always looking tired but always with a smile on her face to see him.

Finding her in Paris had been difficult. After the death of her father she'd seemed to slip off the radar, she no longer answered any of his letters or emails; it was if they had never met so many summers ago at that beach in the Riviera. But running into her in the hallways of the opera house he was investing in had seemed like a godsend. She was ashamed to be reduced to such circumstances, but after a few coffees and lunches later it was just like the old days. Only _now,_ she had grown to be a stunningly beautiful young woman. When she disappeared he had been contemplating asking her to dinner at his home, a definite improvement on the relationship they had been limited to with her coy blushes and her mantra of 'I really must get back, Carlotta will be expecting me'. Of course, they went out for dinner and saw each other during the day several times a week, and for several weeks while his brother had been in town, they saw each other almost every day, but it still wasn't enough. He'd been hoping to maybe...

He snapped the book shut. His feelings were getting away with him again. He didn't like to think about that, about how much he missed her. He just wanted to be able to see her again, and to do that he needed all his energy focused on finding her. Because he _would_ find her.

"Monsieur? Madame Giry is here to see you," came the muffled squeak from his maid as the door to his study was slowly pushed open.

"Finally! Send her in, now," he demanded gruffly. A moment later the familiar form of Marie Giry appeared, looking just as pristine and neat as ever. "You've been avoiding me," he practically growled. She seated herself with a small, impetuous sniff.

"I've been busy, trying to find a way to contact Nadir," was her curt reply. Raoul's brow rose.

"Nadir? Who is this 'Nadir'?" he questioned with a frown.

"Nadir Khan. Probably the only friend Erik has ever had, but I doubt they see each other now. He's the only one who might know where Erik is," she informed him, still looking slightly affronted at his curt tone and lack of greeting. He eased back slightly in his chair, miffed to admit he had been too quick to judge her, but unwilling to admit that.

"And? Have you had any luck?" he questioned after a short pause. She nodded.

"He's in London at the moment. He normally lives in Iran, but I only have the name and room of his hotel in London – he'll be leaving in a few days. We have to go tomorrow to see him," she said decidedly. Raoul opened his mouth to object, but he could find no words. He nodded tersely.

"Of course. Anything to get Christine back," he muttered, before sighing. "So he might know where Erik lives?" he questioned hopefully. Madame Giry shrugged.

"I can only hope. But if anyone knows where Erik is, it would be Nadir. He's our only hope," she insisted. Raoul took a deep, slow breath, before nodding.

"Alright. Tomorrow morning then, I'll book a first class train for London. Please be here by nine, I'll have all the arrangements made," he commanded. Madame Giry stood up with another terse nod, before she swept out of the room.

Raoul gave a very long and slow sigh as he sunk down into his chair.

At least there was hope.

* * *

Nadir didn't like to ask for much. He was a simple man, although he hadn't exactly made his living through the simplest of means.

So to ask for a simple, uninterrupted stay in London for a few weeks for his commission to design a new apartment complex was hardly a great deal to ask. He didn't want the ghosts of his past to come flying at him in the form of a familiar face and an anguished young chap pining for his missing lover. He honestly didn't care until he heard _that name_.

Erik.

He felt a shudder roll through his spine the moment it escaped from Madame Giry's lips.

"Erik has her, Nadir. He had Christine."

He lowered his scotch to the small table in his corner of the hotel restaurant, blinking slowly.

"Are you sure?" he questioned, his voice barely a murmur. That long-haired boy frowned in slight confusion, his English obviously wasn't perfect and Nadir had never bothered with French.

"Certain."

"What was her name, again?" he enquired with slight wariness.

"Christine. Christine Daaé," the boy blabbered frantically. Nadir nodded.

"I'm assuming this is Charles Daaé's baby girl?" he questioned Madame Giry, with one dark brow raised. She nodded.

"But she's hardly a baby now, Nadir. She's seventeen years old – Daaé passed away a few years ago," she informed him.

"I know about the arrangement. Don't worry, I will speak to Erik, but I'm not promising anything, and I'm not doing this for you. I might not even be able to contact him – so don't get your hopes up, boy," he warned. The young man looked to Madame Giry in confusion, before she translated and he gave a relieved sigh.

"We want to get her back, Nadir. You know what Erik is like – she can't stay with him," Giry practically hissed. Nadir waved her off.

"I'm going to speak to him, but I promise nothing, Marie. If Erik doesn't want me to know anything then he won't tell me anything, and there's nothing I can do to change that," he informed her curtly, before taking another sip of his drink. Giry nodded in understanding.

"Thank you, Nadir. We are both very grateful. Once you've spoken with him, please tell us if she's safe. We just want to be sure that she's safe," she requested gently. Nadir swallowed back the rest of his scotch with a small grunt.

"Alright. I'll go visit him next week before I return to Iran, I will call if I have any news," he decided, his tone firm as he made it perfectly clear that there would be no more discussion. Giry and the boy thanked him gratefully before leaving him.

Nadir sighed and eased back into the secluded corner of the restaurant. He knew he was being somewhat ill-tempered, but Erik always meant trouble. He was not going to be in for an easy trip.

And all he had wanted was a bit of simplicity.

* * *

Christine felt her heart sink in disappointment when she opened her eyes to see the sun shining through her bedroom window. She glanced around. Erik had not visited her that night.

Jammes entered to help her ready herself for the day ahead before she had time to give a good sulk, so she bathed and dressed quickly before dashing downstairs to see Erik speaking to the stable boy, who blushed in her presence and immediately disappeared.

"Angel. I was going to slip out before you woke up, save the goodbyes," Erik smiled warmly as she approached him. She wound her arms around his waist with a frown.

"You weren't going to say goodbye?" she questioned with obvious disappointment. He shrugged, and pressed a soft kiss to her waiting lips before speaking.

"I don't like saying goodbye. It's not... well, it doesn't make me feel comfortable," he shrugged simply.

"Do you have time for breakfast?" she enquired hopefully. He shook his head.

"I already ate. I was just telling Louis to make sure my things are in the car, I'm to leave in a few minutes," he informed her with a wry smile. Christine sighed against his neck as his lips moved over her temple, pressing soft kisses to her skin.

"You didn't come to my room last night," she murmured with slight bitterness.

"I was up quite late, packing and making arrangements, and you were fast asleep anyway," he apologised with a slight shrug. Christine pulled back slightly and chewed her bottom lip, lowering her dark eyes.

"I wanted you to come to my room."

"You were sleeping, angel, you wouldn't have noticed either way," he assured her with a slight chuckle. She looked up meaningfully.

"I wanted you to come to my room, Erik. What more do I have to say?" she retorted simply.

The slight widening of his eyes, the dark flash of the iris and the slight twitch of his jaw was the only indication she could receive that he understood her meaning.

"Oh. You – you've thought about it then?" he murmured almost breathlessly, his hands tightening at her waist. She nodded, and stepped forwards bravely.

"I wanted you to come to my room, because I love you, Erik, and I... I love you, and I'd like to be able to show you," she said softly. He cleared his throat, and glanced at his watch with a low, annoyed curse.

"It's just two weeks. Surely we can wait two weeks," he muttered, but the 'we' sounded a great deal more like an 'I'.

"Can't you stay for just a little longer? An hour?" she begged softly. He gave a low chuckle that sounded more like a growl.

"My dear, after waiting so long for what I dearly hope we're discussing, if you think I'd be finished with you in an hour you would be sorely mistaken," he whispered against her ear. "Please don't change your mind when I'm gone. Practise the song and I'll be with you as soon as I can," he said finally, before crushing his lips against hers.

It was a few deliciously long moments before they finally parted with the awkward cough of the stable boy in the garage. Erik gave an irritated growl and stepped away from her.

"No, don't follow me, I'll only accost you in front of Louis, and he's much too young to see that," he commanded with a firm hand against her shoulder as she tried to follow him.

"Be safe, Erik," Christine whispered as he parted from her with one last kiss. He shot her a wry, teasing smile.

"Of course, angel," he swore, before striding out towards the garage. Just before he disappeared he stopped, and turned. "Oh. And I love you too," he added finally, with a small smirk and a wink before he was gone.

Christine sighed. It was going to be a _long_ two weeks.

**A/N: So. We meet Nadir. Nadir is potentially one of my favourite characters. I wouldn't expect him to be much like the Kay Nadir or the Leroux Persian. He's more... well, he plays a fairly big role in the story, and he's more original than he is canon. He and Philippe, who you meet later, were fun to write, even though Philippe is quite bad. But still, I'm getting ahead of myself. University starts soon for me (I really don't put anything at all about my real life in here, really. I always put stuff in my Jane Austen stories, but never any of the others), which means I'll have less time to upload and edit (the story has actually been written, I'm just making adjustments now), but I sort of feel my time as a fanfiction writer is winding down now anyway, and at the ripe old age of seventeen (eighteen soon, squee!) I've done all I can do. So L'Ange Noir might be my last big fic. Probably. **

**So, enjoy it while it lasts!**

**-Evie**


	18. The Gun

The day was surprisingly warm when Nadir arrived at the familiar castle on the coast of Southern-France. It was a leering, towering spectacle that loomed over him and oozed power, wealth and taste – Erik would have nothing less.

It had been a few years since he'd visited there – he and Erik had been barely on speaking terms for quite some time. Not because of any altercation, but it was in some way due to Erik being a man who kept to himself and had no interest in sharing his life with anyone. If he _did_ have the girl, which he was quite certain he did, Nadir couldn't imagine her suffering too much – she probably lived completely separate to him and never even saw his face.

He pulled his rental car up just outside the grand towering gates. As he recalled, there was a small door along the side of the towering wall that Erik sometimes left open when he went on one of his walks – and to Nadir's luck, it was open. He let himself into the beautiful garden surrounding the main courtyard, strolling around to the front of the castle.

He knocked several times on the heavy twin doors at the entrance to the castle until they were finally pulled open to reveal a familiar, frowning woman.

"Madame Sorelli," he greeted with a kind smile.

"It's been some time, Nadir," she scolded in broken English. He smiled.

"I know. I was in France and thought I'd pay a visit to my old friend. Is he in?" he enquired politely. Madame Sorelli shook her head.

"No, and he won't be here tomorrow, either, or even the day after – he's not back til Sunday evening. So what are you really doing here?" she demanded. Nadir sighed.

"Well then, may I see Christine instead? It's not terribly important, but I would like to see how she's been fairing. Does Erik often leave her alone?" he questioned. Madame Sorelli still looked suspicious, but her frown lessened slightly.

"No. He's been very attentive to the mistress. He had to go to Paris on some business affairs," she informed him, a little less coolly.

"Well that's unfortunate; I might give her a little company then. Where is she?" he questioned, glancing over her shoulder.

"The back garden, I believe. I assume you remember?"

"Of course. Thank you, I won't trouble you any longer," he assured her with a kind smile, before nodding once more and turning to return to the garden.

So Madame Giry and the boy were right, Erik _did_ have Christine. He had expected so – he knew of some sort of arrangement that had existed between Erik and Charles Daaé, a dying old violinist who had no one to care for his infant. If Nadir remembered correctly, Erik hated children, and had no interest in looking after her as a father looked after a child. He did, however, express some interest in teaching her.

_Ah. Well, that explains it_, Nadir thought, stopping suddenly when he saw her. It could only be Christine. He knew all the maids in the castle and none would ever be so lovely.

She was young, but her age seemed difficult to tell. If he hadn't already known she was seventeen he could have guessed her at anything from fourteen to her mid twenties. She was a vision of feminine, untamed beauty, with an ethereal white summer dress that trailed into the pond she was crouched beside, slender ivory fingers picking leaves of pink waterlilies, her long chocolate curls trailing over her back and shoulders.

No wonder Erik took care of such a lovely creature. She was absolutely beautiful.

"Hello, Christine. You speak English?" Nadir enquired, strolling up to her. She jumped up in surprise, her emerald eyes widening in shock.

"Who are you?" she demanded instantly, in their mutual language. Nadir smiled.

"I see Erik hasn't mentioned me. Well, he never does, he's a very poor sort of friend," he chuckled. The girl looked at him warily. "My name is Nadir Khan, but Erik prefers to call me Daroga. And you _must_ be Christine," he insisted. She nodded, chewing her lip in nervousness.

"Erik isn't here; he's gone on a business trip. You won't find him," she said suddenly. Nadir chuckled.

"That's alright, I'll be on my way soon, I just thought I'd say hello. Madame Sorelli told me you were in the garden, and I wanted to meet you," he assured her. Christine gave another wary nod. "May we go for a little walk? I'd like to hear how my friend has been treating you," he requested, holding out his arm. Christine looked at him with suspicion, before finally nodding, and stepping forwards.

She examined the man with close scrutiny as she took his arm. She had never seen him before, or else she would have remembered. He looked a few years older than Erik, and was quite handsome, with lovely brown skin the colour of chocolate and dark, intelligent eyes that were not quite brown and not quite green. He dressed well, neatly and as if he were a man of good profession, his hair combed back, his moustache and goatee perfectly trimmed. He had a nice, calming voice and a pleasant smile, the kind of man one would remember.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded as they began to walk.

"I was in London for my work. I'm an architect, I once worked with Erik. My plane stopped off nearby before it changes to an Iranian line, so I thought I might pay my old friend a visit before I left," he replied simply.

"You worked with Erik?" she commented in surprise. Nadir smiled, and nodded.

"Oh yes. Did you know he used to design buildings?" he enquired. She frowned slightly.

"He mentioned something like that, but he doesn't really like to talk about his past. I've never heard him mention you," she replied, her tone still loaded with suspicion.

"I'm not surprised; he's a very private man. So how long have you two been living together?" he questioned curiously.

"Five months next week," she answered almost proudly, stopping as Nadir paused to inspect a rose.

"Hmm, I recognise this variety. Erik did always enjoy the more aesthetic species," he muttered thoughtfully. "Five months is quite some time. Are you enjoying yourself?" he probed, once more moving forth on their slow stroll. Christine shrugged.

"That depends. Why are you asking?" she demanded. Nadir laughed.

"You're very suspicious. I suppose that's Erik's doing?" he challenged. Christine scowled.

"Are you sure you're only here to visit?"

Nadir stopped once more.

"I'm here to check in on my friend, Christine. I don't do it often and I do regret this. He's been good to me in the past and I owe him all I can give," he assured her. Christine relaxed slightly, but still did not drop her guard. "Do you like living here? With Erik?" he enquired, gesturing to a small bench. She sat down beside him.

"Of course I do," she answered almost defensively. Nadir raised a brow, but did not comment.

"And does he take care of you? He's been known to grow... distracted very often, and doesn't look after his own needs, let alone those of others. You might have noticed," he smiled. Christine felt herself laugh slightly as she nodded.

"Yes, I've noticed. He's very involved with his music, but... I mean, I don't mind, I love music too," she assured him.

"I've never understood it, or had as much passion for it as Erik. But I know what I like," he shrugged with a small smile. "And you are... happy?" he questioned, very gently.

"Monsieur Kahn, you ask a great deal of questions," she said thoughtfully. Nadir laughed.

"Yes, I've been told before. Mostly by Erik," he informed her with a small twinkle in his dark eyes. "So? Can you answer me this?" he probed.

"I wasn't at first, it took me months to realise that I don't need to fight it," she shrugged with a small smile, staring at her little white toes as they wiggled in the grass.

"How close are you with Erik?" Nadir asked very carefully. Christine didn't scowl; she had been expecting such a question.

"He says he loves me, does that give you an indication?" she retorted with slight coolness. She felt Nadir stiffen slightly beside her.

"Christine, I would be amiss if I didn't tell you that you're not the first woman to appear in Erik's life. There is a line that could stretch along this coast – and I'm sure he's told one or two of them just about anything to get them in his bed," he warned, his tone suddenly low.

Christine leapt up from her seat and pulled away from the man.

"You're wrong. Erik _does_ love me! You have to leave now," she snapped angrily. Nadir sighed.

"Christine, I'm an architect, not a psychiatrist, but that doesn't mean I can't identify a clear-cut case of Stockholm Syndrome," he informed her calmly. Christine scowled. How _dare_ he?

"No, you're wrong and I think you should leave," she snapped. Nadir nodded, and rose to his feet.

"I'm not going to ask you to do anything, Christine. If you wish to contact me, Erik usually keeps his address book in the top draw of his study, my number is under 'Daroga'. I know he kidnapped you and I know about his promise to your father, so if you wish to leave now I'll take you back to Paris," he offered her gently.

Christine shook her head, her eyes alight with fire.

Nadir sighed, and nodded, unable to help but look defeated. He was worried the moment she began to speak, but now he knew – Erik had somehow managed to trick her into thinking he loved her. Erik was a master manipulator and she was just a young girl. A feisty, fiery young girl, but there was no denying that her mind was like child's play for an expert like Erik.

"Goodbye then, Christine. Perhaps I'll come visit again sometime, when Erik is home," he said finally, giving her a small smile and turning to leave the garden.

He knew what he had to do. Erik would be back on Sunday evening – he had to speak with Madame Giry and that boy immediately, or else there would be no hope of Christine's safety – the moment she told Erik about his visit he would pack their bags and be gone.

_I only have a few days_, Nadir thought to himself with some apprehension as he started the car.

_But it needs to be done_.

* * *

By Saturday afternoon Christine was more than a little worried.

It had been almost two weeks and Erik was due to return home in only a little more than twenty-four hours, but she needed him with her _now_, at that very moment. She was sure that the arrival of Nadir meant something very serious, and for the past four days she had been pacing nervously. She was sure that Nadir had come to hurt Erik, he seemed very gentle but she had been wrong before. She needed to speak to Erik and tell him he was in danger!

She sat herself down on the library window seat with a huff, tossing her book aside. She was so lost in her thoughts as she stared out the large window to the crashing ocean below that she didn't hear the door open, and screamed when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Erik!" she cried joyfully, throwing herself at him when she turned. He laughed at her enthusiasm and kissed her with ardour. She responded with a fervour that had been building up for the past two weeks. "I have so much to tell you!" she gasped into his mouth as he slowly began to push her back against the window seat, his hands sliding around her waist and across the small of her back.

"Mm. Later. I've been thinking of this since I left," he murmured, moving his lips to her jaw. She sighed in the warm familiarity of his touch that she had been missing for weeks, her hands sliding over his neck and shoulders. She allowed his attentions for a few moments more than she should have with such a pressing issue she needed to discuss.

"Erik?"

"Mm."

"Erik, your friend came to visit," she gasped out as his lips moved to her neck. He stopped suddenly and looked up with a frown.

"The Daroga came?" he questioned incredulously. Christine rolled her eyes.

"I'm a little concerned that you seemed to have only one possibility to choose from. You need more friends, Erik," she informed him a little bluntly. Erik pulled away from her, his face marred with seldom-seen confusion.

"Well what did he want?" he demanded.

"He said he wanted to see how you were doing, and that he regretted not being able to see you more. It was four days ago now," she replied, relieved that he wasn't worried, only confused.

"Did he speak to you?" he questioned sharply. She nodded.

"Yes, I was in the garden. He went to speak to Madame Sorelli first before he came to talk to me. He knew my name and about my father. Erik, I've been so worried he was here to hurt you," she said quickly, wishing he would move back to her and kiss away her fears.

"Nadir couldn't hurt a fly. But this is very unusual," he muttered thoughtfully, beginning to pace.

"And he – he kept on asking me if I was happy and if you were good to me. He told me I had Stockholm Syndrome and offered to take me back to Paris," she added.

Erik stopped pacing.

His expression turned from one of confusion to one of complete and total fear. His skin grew pallid and his eyes glassy. Suddenly he leapt forwards and grabbed her arm, pulling her out of the library.

"Sorelli! Jammes! Giselle, Grace, Louis, _everybody_, come here _now_!" he roared into the ballroom. Servants appeared almost immediately, bustling from their places with concerned expressions.

"Master! You've come back! I didn't even hear you come in!" Madame Sorelli exclaimed with surprise.

"Pack all Mademoiselle Christine's belongings, _everything_, and Louis, you start on mine now. Christine and I must leave as soon as possible, Madame Sorelli and Jammes will come with us to – Christine, where do you want to go?" he asked her breathlessly.

"Where can we go?" she asked, still in shock with the violence of his reaction.

"I need to get you out of France. I have a place in Vienna, will that do?" he questioned. She nodded. "Good. Everyone, prepare the castle for our absence, we need to leave right away," he demanded. Those assembled nodded cautiously before rushing off to their tasks.

"Erik, what's wrong?" she asked nervously.

"Master, we can't have everything ready until tomorrow morning," Madame Sorelli interrupted.

"We need to leave _now_."

"The servants respect you, Master, but they won't miss church tomorrow. Let us go to church in the morning and when we return we'll leave immediately," she practically demanded.

"Fine, we'll stay here tonight but be gone tomorrow morning at the latest," he nodded tersely.

"Thank you very much, Master. I'll go help pack," she replied, before bustling away with haste.

"Erik, what's happening? Why do we have to leave?" she questioned anxiously. Erik didn't reply, but headed in the direction of the music room. She followed with haste, unable to keep up with his long strides without running. "_Erik_! Answer me!" she demanded, pulling at his arm.

"There are people who want to take you away from me, and I think the Daroga is working with them," he answered instantly.

"Well I won't go! I love you, Erik, and I don't want to leave you ever again," she insisted. He shot her a grateful smile that came out more like a grimace.

"Thank you, angel, but we still have to leave immediately. I won't risk putting you in harm's way," he muttered, pressing a kiss to her forehead before turning back to enter his music room. He immediately began pulling out folder cases and thrust whatever sheet music he could grasp into them. All his compositions filled up two or three large cases. "We can only take the violin, but I have a piano and an organ in Vienna," he instructed. Christine immediately rushed to put his violin in its case as he took it from her when her hands shook too much to be of any help. He swung it over his back with the strap and picked up two cases of sheet music, Christine grabbing the last case and following swiftly after him.

He walked so quickly that for a moment she lost him before she heard the sounds of one of the cars unlocking in the garage. She found him filling the boot of the big black Sedan with the violin and the cases of sheet music, and directing servants in with suitcases already filled with clothes.

"Christine, go get your schoolbooks and any others you wish to take with you. I have some in Vienna, but make sure you fetch your favourites," he directed. She nodded, biting her lip before she dashed into the library. She took out a few volumes and then did the same in the study before running up to her room, arms full of books. Jammes helped her put them in a carryall along with some of the others in her room.

The whole house was in an uproar to be ready. Christine rushed around on Erik's instructions, assisting when she could. By nine o'clock they had packed almost everything they needed and wished to take, and the cook was serving dinner, forcing everyone to stop for a few moments.

"Erik, are you scared?" Christine questioned after Madame Sorelli had forced him to sit at the table with at least a few bites to eat.

"Yes, darling. I'm absolutely terrified, and that doesn't happen often," he replied with a small, bitter smile. She nodded, pressing her teeth against her bottom lip to will herself not to cry. "Angel, please, you mustn't be upset. We'll be gone tomorrow morning and I'll never have to risk losing you again," he assured her gently, reaching to hold her hand tightly. She nodded.

"It's just – I'm scared because _you're_ scared. I don't want you to get hurt and I don't want to have to leave you," she admitted quietly. He gave a small smile.

"That's understandable. But you mustn't be scared. I'll always find some way to keep you safe, Christine. Always," he insisted, with a soft kiss to her knuckles. Christine nodded, and gave a relieved sigh as he pulled her into his lap, stroking her hair to comfort her.

Neither of them ate very much. Erik disappeared after dinner to oversee some more packing, and Christine sent Jammes and Madame Sorelli from her room to go pack their own belongings. Her room looked strangely bare – and she could think of nothing to do without Erik.

She slowly strolled through the hall, peering into rooms to check if there was anything that needed packing. Her heart raced as she passed Erik's private chambers – she had never been in them before, and it looked like she wouldn't get the opportunity before they left.

She knocked on the door gently, but heard no reply. Building her courage, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Erik looked up when she entered. He was busy tossing a few things into an open suitcase by a large ornate wardrobe. He said nothing as she gazed around the room.

It was... incredible. It seemed very dark with its deep scarlet drapes and plush carpet. It was very ornate and very masculine, with black gothic furniture – such as the large bed the shape of a swan in the centre of the room, or the crimson velvet settee by the window. It was so... strange, and so overpowering.

"Are you alright?" Erik questioned with a small, slightly amused grin. She swallowed.

"I've never seen your room before," she muttered thoughtfully, still gazing around in wonder. He shrugged.

"No. I don't believe you have."

"I didn't know it connected to mine," she admitted, glancing to the door that separated their two bedrooms. She had noted that door before, it was always locked and she only occasionally could hear small noises behind it, but she had never thought their rooms were _connected_.

"Yes, well, it's an old castle," he replied, taking a step forwards.

"It's a bit... intimidating, you know," she muttered thoughtfully, glancing around at the ornate, powerful furnishings. In the corner sat a large organ – she had once or twice heard one sound when she was out in the garden or downstairs, but she had never thought twice about it.

"Hmm. Perhaps," he agreed with a shrug. Christine swallowed nervously.

"Erik, do you remember what we discussed... the day you left?" she asked, wringing her hands together anxiously. Her heart was racing a million miles an hour.

"Mm. I've only been thinking of it every passing moment, Christine," he shrugged teasingly, taking another purposeful step forwards. "Do you still want –"

She nodded before he could continue his sentence.

"Ah. And you've thought about it? This isn't just some sort of... well, cruel joke?" he questioned with a raised brow, taking another step forwards.

"It's not. I love you," she replied quietly. He smiled softly, and wound his arms around her waist. "But – uh, N – Nadir mentioned something to me," she murmured. He nodded, his mouth now pressed against her brow.

"What was it?"

"H – He said he that I – I'm not the first... woman. He said there was a line as long as the coast, and you must have told some of them you loved them just to... get them into your bed," she mumbled quietly into his neck. He gave a small chuckle.

"Let me guess, he called me a Don Juan?" he questioned dryly. She blushed and nodded.

"Is – is it true?" she asked, almost fearfully. He sighed.

"It's true that you're not the first, and... it's true that there have been many. But that just means I'm experienced, that I know what I'm doing, and that I will do everything I can to make you feel the ecstasy that I feel by simply being in your presence," he assured her gently. She nodded.

"And... the rest?" she continued. He gave a small smile and tilted her chin up to meet her eyes.

"I've never told anyone else in the world that I love them. Because I never _have_ loved anyone else. Not the way I love you, Christine," he insisted. She couldn't help but smile. "Anything else?" he questioned, his eyes flashing dark with desire.

"That's all I really wanted to ask, actually," she practically squeaked. He smirked, and nodded, holding her tighter in his arms.

"Well then."

"Well."

"We should probably wait til we get to Austria," he said thoughtfully. Christine bit her lip.

"We could..."

"I mean, we're moving tomorrow. We should probably try to get a full night's sleep."

"I can sleep in the car."

Erik chuckled. "Well then, I suppose that's my arguments defeated," he smirked, his eyes flashing playfully. Christine arched a brow.

"You're not a very good debater, Erik," she retorted. His smirk grew as his hands tightened around her waist.

"Well, I would be rather stupid to argue against something that's been driving me mad with want for months, wouldn't it," he teased.

Christine didn't even have time to make a snappy retort before he pulled her against his chest and crushed his lips against hers.

* * *

Christine rolled over between the silk sheets of the unfamiliar bed, her eyelids fluttering open and adjusting to the soft light streaming in from the window. She sat up in slight confusion, the cool morning air hitting her bare skin as a shivering reminder of the night before.

She closed her eyes and trembled slightly with the memory of what had happened in that bed – images of two bodies entwined and joined beneath the silky crimson sheets, the sound of his heavy breathing against her ear, the feel of his hands sliding across her body – it made her blush in both shame and secret joy.

She had never felt so... complete, so safe. She sat up and glanced around to discover the location of her missing lover. She spied a beautiful black, red and gold Oriental dressing robe on the foot of the bed and pulled it on to fend off the chilly morning, before sliding back and sitting up in bed, wondering where Erik could have gone.

She didn't have to wonder for long before the door opened and the familiar figure stepped into the room. Erik's smile was hinted with smugness, but was comprised of for the most part what she liked to think was love. He was partially dressed in black trousers and a white shirt that had only been half-buttoned, his jaw covered in a light layer of stubble and a breakfast tray in his hands.

"And there I was, trying to do something romantic," he chuckled, strolling forwards and setting the tray down on the bedside table. She blushed, which caused his smirk to grow. He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled her forwards gently to press a light kiss on her lips. "Mm. Good morning," he greeted softly.

"Good morning," she practically squeaked in return. He chuckled at her nervousness.

"How are you feeling?" he questioned, brushing a stray lock of her dark hair back.

"I – uh – g – good, I guess. A – And you?" she replied quietly.

"Mm, quite well, I'd say," he smirked. She rolled her eyes before he pressed another kiss to her mouth.

"You look like the cat that ate the canary," she teased with a nervous sort of sigh. He gave a playful shrug and passed her the cup of tea he had made for her.

"Well, you sing too beautifully to be a canary, so I would call you a nightingale, my dear," he retorted playfully, before sipping his own cup of coffee. "Are you ready for today? Have you packed everything you wish to keep with you?" he questioned, leaning across her and grabbing a piece of toast from the tray.

"I think so. As long as I have you I'll be fine," she smiled. Erik coughed somewhat... guiltily. "Erik? You _are_ coming with me, right?" she frowned.

"Madame Sorelli will drive you to the airport with our luggage, and you'll take a private plane to Vienna. I'll follow by car – when Nadir knows we've gone he'll call every airport looking for a man and a woman travelling out of France by private plane. He wouldn't expect me to send you without me," he explained, his eyes flashing apologetically.

"Erik, I don't like this. I want to come with you," she objected with a slight pout. Erik sighed, and placed his coffee on the table, and eased the tea out her hands to follow it. He pulled her to his chest and lay down atop the unmade bed.

"It's better this way. I won't risk it, Christine," he insisted gently. Christine turned her head into his chest and breathed in his warm, comforting scent. "Mais..."

"No. No 'buts' or 'howevers', Erik. I won't go if there's a 'mais', I couldn't handle losing you," she murmured firmly, winding her arms around his waist.

"Christine, I'm not immortal and I won't lie to you, there's a chance Nadir might find us. But you _must_ know –" he paused, and released a long, slow breath. "I don't think you even understand how much you mean to me. You're everything in my world, and I won't let anyone take that away from me, not when I'm happy, after all these years," he explained, his voice rather quiet. Christine concealed her smile in his shoulder. He can't have known how much that thought thrilled her.

"Erik, I love you. I – I would do anything for you. You're all I have and all I want," she insisted softly. She felt, rather than saw Erik smile.

"In all honesty, I don't believe you. I can't imagine how anyone could love – well, someone like me," he shrugged somewhat painfully.

"Erik! That's an _awful_ thing to say!" she exclaimed. "I love you because you can be gentle and loving and because you're talented and beautiful and intelligent and – and I can't even explain why I love you but you _must_ believe that I do!" she insisted emphatically. Erik chuckled.

"It's such a part of me that I don't feel I even need to say it, but I love you. More than that, I'm obsessed with you; I live for you and only you. You should know that," he said suddenly, his voice almost choked with sincerity. He looked rather uncomfortable all of a sudden, but she wasn't offended. She knew it must be hard for him to speak of such things.

"I know you do," she assured him softly. He sighed. Christine slid up to press her lips to Erik's, and he gave a pained sort of smile.

"But if Nadir finds you, then I'll follow, I won't let him take you away from me," he insisted firmly. She nodded, knowing that it was all he needed. He sat up, reaching over her once again. But this time he did not reach for the toast, he pulled open a drawer on the small bedside table, and from it he took a small, black velvet box. Christine's chest tightened immediately.

"We can't get married, obviously. It would be for aesthetic qualities only, but it's..." he sighed, and gave a nervous sort of laugh as he stared at the box in his hand. "I've had it for as long as I can remember. I think it was perhaps my mother's, but it's always been with me. I got it inscribed in Paris," he continued, flicking the little box open.

In the red silk cushioning sat the most beautiful, perfect ring Christine had ever seen. It was made of beautiful white gold, and was at the same time both fantastically ornate and stunningly elegant. In the centre sat the most beautiful blood ruby, so dark it looked almost black, and the outside band cut to look like two rose stems that met in the middle, but on the inside, in an ornate script she read a familiar verse that she suspected might even be biblical; _'Bear all things. Believe all things. Hope in all things. Endure all things. Love never dies.'_

"Erik, this is..."

"I was thinking about when you would join the opera, and I wanted... I wanted to make sure I had some claim over you that the whole world could see. Something that kept us bound. And I'd like it if..." he gave another half-chuckle half-sigh and ran his hand through his dark hair. "We don't need to stand before a priest – we were joined together last night, Christine, and we don't have to answer to any higher power. I'm prepared to promise everything that a man would promise his wife, plus one more thing," he explained with a slight shrug.

"What is it?' she asked, feeling so happy she could almost cry.

"I – Lord, I'm no good with this sort of nonsense," he muttered beneath his breath, looking rather shamefaced. "I promised to your father many years ago that I would do whatever is in my power to keep you safe. To make sure that you get whatever is best for you," he began slowly, his hands entwining with hers. He picked up one and pressing it to his lips. "I promise you, Christine, that I will _always_ be here for you to make sure I keep the vow I made to your father. I'll do everything I can to make sure you have the life you deserve," he said firmly. Christine smiled and pressed her lips against his with an insistent kiss.

"Je t'aime, Erik," she murmured against his mouth. He smiled, and moved his lips to her jaw.

"What goodness have I done to deserve such perfection?" he questioned against her throat. She shivered with the desperation of his words before he moved his mouth up to press another gentle, soft kiss to her lips.

"Erik, this is beautiful. I love it, and I love you," she insisted, when he pulled away. Erik gave a relieved laugh.

"Well, you took that better than I was fearing," he chuckled, almost nervously. "Now. We must leave soon. Madame Sorelli and Jammes will be back from church in another hour, I'll drive with you to the airport, but then I'm going the rest of the way by myself, Christine. You can help Madame Sorelli set up the house in Vienna for my return," he instructed. She rolled her eyes and took half his piece of toast, casting her eyes to the ring that glittered on her finger, full of promise and future.

"You're so bossy. I'll do it, but only if you promise to be safe," she replied sternly, when she tore her eyes away from her hand. Erik laughed.

"I'm always safe, Christine. You mustn't worry," he assured her gently. She raised a brow.

"Oh really? Well, if you arrive with even a scratch then you owe me," she threatened. He chuckled.

"And if I arrive without a scratch, does that mean I get my way with you?" he challenged playfully. Christine blushed.

"I wasn't aware we needed to bet for that, Erik. I thought it was unconditional," she teased. Erik's eyes flashed darkly with desire.

"You little minx," he breathed, his voice almost a chuckle. Christine began to cry out with laughter as he pinned her beneath his form and began to tickle her side mercilessly.

"Erik! No, stop, please!" she cried, kicking her feet to fight against him, her laughs coming in strangled gasps.

"Do you concede that I'm allowed to have my way with you whenever I want, under whatever conditions I wish?" he questioned against her ear. She stubbornly kept her mouth closed, so he responded with another round of tickling – causing her to cry out again.

"Erik! Ha – s – stop, please! Please, no!" she called out.

Before Erik could pose her with another challenge he was interrupted by a crash behind them as the door was pulled open.

Erik turned in surprise, but Christine didn't even have time to see what was happening before she felt Erik being pulled off her.

"You _bastard_! Get away from her, I'll kill you, I swear!" came a furious cry that she knew all too well.

"Raoul?" she gasped in shock, but before she could even contemplate his sudden presence she was being pulled out of bed by the arms of an unfamiliar woman. "What's happening?" she questioned incredulously.

"Christine, I am Madame Giry, we've come to rescue you," a woman explained breathlessly in Parisian French.

"You're a _monster_! I should kill you right now!" Raoul screamed, his face purpling with anger as he threw Erik to the ground. Caught unawares, Erik could do nothing to resist before Raoul kicked him in the ribs. Erik let out a growl of pain and pulled away, attempting to stand before his opponent aimed another kick.

"Marie, bring her here. We have to get her out," Christine heard another familiar voice cry out in English. She turned to see Nadir stepping into the room, his face pale with concern.

"Raoul! Stop it, you're hurting him!" Christine cried desperately, trying to pull forwards. The woman held her tightly, causing her to fight and struggle against her strong arms.

"Christine, it's alright! You're safe!" the woman insisted, her voice sharp and firm.

"I told you, he's manipulated her, she's deluded," Nadir snapped to the woman, Madame Giry.

"Daroga. It seems you've forgotten our past dealings," Erik spat, struggling to his feet. His eyebrow was bloodied and his lip cut, but he looked little worse for wear. Nadir held out his hand to stop Raoul from bursting forth once more.

"Erik. I thought you wouldn't be returning till tonight," Nadir replied, his tone measured and calm.

"The traffic was with me. Care to explain what you're doing in my home without being invited?" he questioned coolly.

"You took a girl from Paris in the dead of night and you've been keeping her a prisoner for five months. It sounded like you, but I needed to be sure," Nadir returned simply.

"You're scum. I thought she was _dead_, you'll pay for what you did to Christine, and for what you did to _me_!" Raoul cried furiously. Christine could hardly recognise the boy that stood before her; he looked... like he had been wasting away for the past five months. His skin was pale and tighter over his bones, he looked drawn and tired; it wasn't the overly eager young man she had once known.

"Madame Giry. I'm surprised to see you associating with this whelp, and as I remember, you and the Daroga never got along too well," Erik challenged, nodding to the woman still holding back a struggling Christine.

"You disgust me, Erik. I never knew your taste for beautiful young women had spread to _kidnap_ and _rape_," she retorted, her voice a cruel, sharp tone.

"Let go of Christine. I've never killed a female before, but if you even so much as bruise that skin I'm afraid you might be in danger, woman," he replied coolly.

"Erik – don't be ridiculous. You know it couldn't have lasted forever, she has loved ones who have been missing her," Nadir interrupted. Erik sent him a cold glare, his eyes flashing with anger. He was backed against the wall with Raoul and Nadir leering at him.

"If it weren't for Christine I probably would have killed you by this point, Daroga. I don't want to frighten her, so we had best step out of the room and discuss this like rational gentlemen," Erik proposed simply.

"You're an _animal_, not a gentleman!" Raoul roared in his broken English. Erik sighed.

"Boy, I've only just met you and I'm already tired of your self-righteousness. Step back and allow the adults to discuss this," he commanded in stern French. Raoul's response was to spit at the floor before him. "Nice attempt. But don't worry, I'll pretend you were able to go the distance and punish you accordingly," he replied coolly, before stepping forwards. Nadir got in first with his fist against Erik's jaw.

"Don't! Leave him _alone_!" Christine cried angrily, finally breaking away from the woman's hold. She rushed to Erik immediately and clutched to his chest.

"Christine, stay back. I don't want you hurt," Erik commanded, his voice a low growl.

"No. I won't let you fight them."

"Christine, stay away from him!" Raoul commanded, tugging her away from her lover with his firm, tight grip. Madame Giry clutched onto her once more, her grip as strong as iron. "You've gotten into her head, but you won't be in her life ever again!" he declared, fumbling with something on his belt.

"I believe the colloquial way of saying this is 'you and what army, monsieur?'" Erik challenged coolly.

Christine screamed when the gun appeared as if out of nowhere.

Erik, for his part, barely flinched.

"Well. If you want to be dishonest about it then I suppose _that_ will be your army. I didn't expect any better, but unfortunately I'm not as prepared, Vicomte," he sneered.

"You've destroyed her life and mine, but I promise I won't let you hurt anyone else ever again," Raoul swore.

"Now, boy, don't be silly," Nadir instructed in calm, slow English.

"Raoul! Don't you _dare_!" Christine cried furiously. Raoul's arm trembled and Erik took a step forwards.

"I rather doubt you have the courage, boy. Killing a man isn't easy. You must separate yourself from the action. It's not for the weak," Erik almost murmured. He stared at the gun with incredible focus.

"I'll only spare you if you swear never to come after her, to let this end now and to admit defeat," Raoul threatened. Erik laughed.

"Ah. So you're one of those fellows who need assurance on a constant basis that they're the victor? Well, son, I believe you've met a little more than just your match," Erik challenged coolly.

"_Decide_!"

"Listen to me clearly, boy," he commanded with a frightening seriousness, his eyes narrowing. "The only way you can get me to leave her is to kill me. I will _never_ abandon Christine, and you would do well to remember that," he warned.

"Erik, don't be a fool," Nadir murmured warningly.

"Shutup, Daroga."

Raoul's hand continued to tremble. Erik gave a bored sort of sigh and took a determined step forwards, pushing Raoul's arm away.

"He's too frightened, Christine. You have nothing to fear," he assured her with a gentle smile.

"The only thing she has to fear is _you_!" Raoul cried angrily, leaping forwards and pulling off the mask that covered half of Erik's face.

Christine's eyes widened but she did not scream. Erik roared in anger and pulled back, his hand pressed over his face, but she had already seen, and what she saw was burnt into her mind.

The portion of his face usually covered by his mask was disfigured and twisted with a bold port wine stain that looked as if some sort of disease had eaten into his flesh. It was horrifying, with sunken indentations that seemed to go right down to the bone.

Erik refused to look at her as he leapt at Raoul with an angry cry. Christine cried out when she heard a loud _crack_ from the gun, and Erik stumbled forwards, reaching for the bedpost.

"Erik! _Erik!_" she screamed, pulling against that damned woman with all her might, but Nadir had moved to help hold her back as Erik's legs buckled beneath him. His shirt was quickly starting to stain with a reddish, purplish hue that spilt down his chest and to the floor. Erik's eyes went glazed and his head rolled back as he fell to the floor, twitching slightly as the blood poured.

Christine pulled with all her strength and cried out desperately, but when Nadir picked her up as if she were no heavier than a pillow she could do nothing but beat against his chest and kick in anger.

"Christine, it's for the best. It's for the best," he assured her quietly. She still screamed and wailed desperately.

"Erik! _Erik!_ I don't want him to die alone! ERIK!" she screamed down the hall as she was carried away at speed. She screamed and cried and wailed but to no avail, Nadir was strong and before she could even resist she was thrust into the back seat of a car. She leapt for the door but felt a hand pull her back and a sharp blow to her head, and then everything faded into darkness as the car pulled away, leaving the castle and her dying lover behind.

By the time she awoke she knew it was too late.

Erik was gone, in every sense of the word.

**A/N: The end.**

**NO, NOT REALLY. DON'T HATE ME.**

**This is the end of Volume I. We're a third of the way though, plenty more drama to come. And angst. LOTS of angst. The next volume is pretty much just angst, so if you're not into that, then you can stop here and never know what happened. Or alternatively, you could wait a month or so for the next volume, and continue reading from there. I wouldn't advise it though, but it's up to you. **

**Alright, before I end this author's note, allow me to explain the verse on the ring. It is a variation on Corinthians chapter thirteen, verses seven to eight. The King James translation (which is the best version of the bible, as it is lyrical and has unicorns in it) is 'Bareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. Charity never faileth'**_**.**_** Now, the New International version for some reason replaces 'charity' with 'love', but I hate the New International translation. Anyways. I have read two modern variations on this verse, the first was listed earlier in this chapter and engraved on the ring, and the second used 'fails' instead of 'dies', which is closer to the KJ edition. **

**Obviously the replacement of 'charity' with 'love' and 'faileth' with 'dies' stretches the meaning of the text, but I didn't do that myself, so don't blame me. But, in the interests of the story resembling canon for 'Love Never Dies', I used 'Bear all things, believe all things, hope in all things, endure all things. Love never dies.' I just wanted to explain this in case anyone jumped on my case. The bible is a beautifully written book (well, the King James edition is, at least), and although I don't think the translation I used is an accurate translation of the original phrasing, I have used 'love' and 'dies' purely for plot purposes. So please, don't get offended if you find the use of this translation offensive. I'm not a Christian, so it doesn't bother me much, but if it does, remember than this is fanfiction, and I'm not trying to upset anyone at all.**


	19. The Emptiness

Christine didn't want to hear anything.

She didn't want to see anything.

She didn't want to talk, and she didn't want to be comforted by anyone.

She didn't want anything. She didn't want to sleep or cry or eat or listen to music.

She was crawled up in a single bed with light pink sheets and a floral cover in a small, cheery room of Madame Giry and her daughter's 15th _arrondissement_ apartment. She didn't want to chat with Meg, the bouncing blonde girl about her age who Madame Giry was so sure she would be friends with. She didn't want Raoul to come around every day with a bouquet of flowers and ask to see her.

She didn't want to see all eternity stretching out before her as seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, _years_ without Erik. She wanted things to rewind.

She wanted to leave that bedroom being carried back out by Nadir with tears no longer streaming down her face, but disappearing back into her eyes as she beat her arms against his chest and her angry wails of agony wisping back into her mouth. She wanted to leave the apartment, she wanted to get back in the car and drive back to the castle; she wanted to watch everything in reverse as she was dragged back through the garden, up the stairs, down the hall and back into Erik's bedroom. She wanted that bullet to race back out of his body and into the gun and she wanted the blood to speed back in his chest before he rose to his feet.

She wanted the past two weeks to disappear so she could go back in time and be with Erik again.

And what was worse, she didn't even have the ring to remember Erik by, because Nadir, recognising it as his so called 'friends', took it from her.

"You'll thank me later. This will help you heal," he had said softly, slipping it off her finger no matter how much she wailed and begged him to return it. She _needed_ it back, because now it was all she had left.

Nadir, Madame Giry and Raoul were all perfectly plain about it. That bullet had gone into his heart and he had gone into a fit – and then he was gone. One moment he was smiling, laughing, teasing her, and then the next he was lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood, his mortally wounded form so real and yet at the same time so _false_, because it wasn't Erik, it couldn't be. Because Erik wasn't gone.

He just couldn't be gone, no matter how much her subconscious decided she needed to be reminded of that scene, replaying over and over in her head. It was so impossibly unfair and she hated it with all her being and then some, but Erik was _gone_, and there was nothing she could do to get him back.

Two weeks passed in which Christine didn't really do anything at all. She didn't even eat, she just sat in bed. On the second day she drank half a glass of water, and then another on the third, but she could see no reason to eat. She didn't want to feed herself, because that would extend her life without Erik, and she didn't want that. She didn't want life without him.

After those two weeks she sat up and went to the window and stared out at the Paris she was once a part of. She showered and put on a pair of Meg's jeans and a jumper, and made a tentative attempt into the lounge room. She was angry and confused and wanted to hurt someone, she wanted to hurt Nadir for betraying Erik and she wanted to hurt Raoul for killing him. She was angry and she needed to see both of them.

"Oh, you're finally up! Mère will be so happy; she's been really worried about you. She wants you to see Monsieur Kahn – she said he might be able to help with the nightmares," came a cheerful, bouncing voice as Meg, the daughter of Madame Giry, came bounding out of her bedroom with a broad smile on her pretty mouth.

Christine winced with the mention of the nightmares.

Oh, there had been terrors in the night that could cause her to tremble even in the broad daylight.

She awoke most nights screaming and wailing as if in agony – each night she relived his death. Each night she had to watch him die again and again, so she tried not to sleep, but eventually the slumber would claim her and make her wish she had never been born.

"D'accord," Christine muttered quietly, slipping her hands into her pockets as she stared at her bare feet. She had nothing from the castle, not the beautiful clothes Erik had given her, not her ballet bag or her iPod or her diamond watch, for a few nights she had that dressing robe she'd been wearing when they took her – but she had clung to it so tightly that Madame Giry took it from her in another attempt to help her 'heal'.

"Would you like to go out? Mum won't be back til later, we could go shopping, if you like," Meg offered eagerly. Christine sniffled.

"Uh, I don't – I don't think I'm really ready to deal with a crowd," she mumbled awkwardly. Meg gasped in understanding.

"_Oh!_ I completely forgot. Sorry about that, I understand, Mum told me that might be the case. Five months as a hostage, it must have been hard," she replied with a sympathetic smile.

Christine wanted to scream at her in anger and make her understand how _impossibly_ hard it was to know that she was never going to feel Erik's touch or hear his voice again, but she held her tongue.

"I suppose. I would like to speak to Nadir, how can I contact him?" she questioned quietly.

"Oh, he comes round every day at about twelve o'clock, asking if you're up. He shouldn't be too long, sorry I can't wait for you, but I have a rehearsal," she apologised, picking up a bag that was sitting on the lounge. With an _à bientôt!_ she was gone, leaving Christine alone in the apartment.

Christine ate a little as she waited for Nadir to arrive, but for the most part she tried not to think. She had some decisions to make and she truly did not want to make them. She didn't want to think about what she would do, now that she didn't have Erik. She just wanted to go to sleep and awake in his arms.

The thought caused a fresh wave of tears to come, and she hardly even heard Nadir step into the room. She saw him through blurred, teary eyes as he approached, his usual perfectly neat self.

"Christine," Nadir sighed, stepping forwards to her. She beat his chest angrily as he enveloped her in a warm, comforting hug, and her fists grew fitful and their force reduced until she was crying into his chest, her whole body shaking with tears.

"Why did you have to do that? _Why_?" she demanded angrily. Nadir exhaled a long and slow breath as he smoothed back her dark hair.

"Erik was not a good man, Christine. He was loyal and honourable, but that didn't make him good – he had killed, he had stolen, he had lied and deceived and I didn't put kidnapping a young woman for less honourable means past him," he explained gently. Christine threw her balled fist against Nadir firmly and cried out in objection.

"He was good to _me_! He was good to his servants and he was good to the people who loved him! And _I_ loved him!" she cried angrily. Nadir held her tightly to stop her from beating him again.

"I'm sorry that this is hurting you so much, but in time you'll –"

"I don't _want_ there to be time! I just want Erik back and you've taken him from me!" she insisted angrily. Nadir sighed, and nodded against her dark curls.

"It will take time to heal, Christine. Give it time and you'll be able to get over this, I swear," he insisted gently. Christine shook her head firmly.

"No. No, it won't. I know it won't," she muttered. Nadir gave a muffled chuckle against her hair.

"Well, you're young. Perhaps you're not accustomed to pain yet," he suggested simply. Christine pulled from him with a scowl on her face, her eyes flashing darkly.

"No. I'm young. I wouldn't know what it's like to lose the people you love more than anything else," she practically spat. "So I wouldn't know what it's like to be orphaned at fourteen, and then, to have life finally seem to be making sense before the man I love is killed right before my eyes," she retorted coolly. Nadir's eyes flickered to the floor in shame.

"I'm sorry. I forgot," he muttered. He sighed, ran a hand through his dark hair, and then led her to the settee. Christine curled up against the arm rest and began toying with the ends of her long hair. "I've lost a lot too, Christine. I know what it's like," he began, his tone laced with hesitation. Christine raised a brow in question. "A few years ago my wife left me when our son passed away. It was too much for Rookheya. It was very difficult – I felt like the entire world had just been pulled out from beneath my feet. It was very hard for me to gain a grip on my life," he informed her with slight bitterness.

"I'm sorry."

"Not as sorry as I was. Reza, my boy, he was very ill for quite some time – it was a relief when he was finally free from the pain," he shrugged. Christine lowered her eyes and focused on the embroidery of a cushion, not really seeing what was before her.

"Can you tell me about Erik? I feel like I still don't even know him," she requested, her voice almost a whisper. Nadir sighed.

"I don't know much. He seems to believe that he consciously blocked out the first few years of his life because of some sort of trauma," he began carefully. "His earliest memories were of wandering the streets before he was picked up by a travelling gypsy show. He had the most _incredible_ voice, and that was how he contributed to the gypsies, but I know he suffered many cruelties there," he continued.

"I know that man abused him and the other boys. He told me, and he said that's why he would never force himself on me, because he knows – he _knew_ how horrible it was," she muttered. Nadir gave a pained nod.

"Yes, he never told me that but I always suspected. Did he tell you how he left?" he questioned gently. She shook her head. "He was very handy with what is called a _Punjab Lasso_, it's like a sort of noose. He killed him, Christine. He strangled Javert and ran away with some of the other young boys to join a guerrilla terrorist group, before they left to seek refuge in a monastery," he informed her carefully. She winced.

"I thought so. I didn't want to but... God, please have mercy on him," she whispered desperately.

"The same thing happened with a priest, but he didn't kill him. I don't think. It was an accident, hardly suspicious but... still..." Nadir trailed off. Christine clenched her fists together.

"Just because he stopped that _man_ from raping him doesn't mean –"

"And then he became a 'toy' for a very rich and powerful woman of politics and aristocracy in Iran, where I lived. I think he was just there to please her, he was one of her many young... well, you know," he continued meaningfully.

"No. What do you mean?" she frowned. Nadir gave an awkward sort of laugh.

"The woman had a lot of... younger boys around her at all times. They were lovers. I believe she saw it as her mission to educate them on how to... pleasure a woman, and to lord it over her husband's head," he explained, avoiding her eyes. "She liked the younger boys. She could teach them, and Erik was a particular favourite of hers. I believe he had the special privilege of sleeping in her quarters most nights, and he had his selection of the girls of the – well, I suppose you would call it a _haram_, on the nights he didn't share her bed. She was very strange, that woman. She quite frightened me," he added. Christine lowered her eyes.

"I knew I wasn't the first. It just seems..." she sighed, and shook her head. "Please. Go on," she demanded.

"He had been educated somehow, along the way, and there was no denying that he was a veritable genius. He designed buildings, machines, new instruments – I also worked for this woman, but in a different way. That's how we met, and Erik agreed to give me some of his plans and inventions in exchange for almost all of the royalties, it gave me a very credible reputation which brought money all the same, but he was making millions before he was your age, Christine," he explained. She nodded in understanding.

"He's told me this. Well, some of this," she replied. Nadir nodded.

"And from there he went to Paris when the woman was assassinated. He pulled curtains for the same theatre Madame Giry works in to this day. I believe he made many adjustments to the structure and somehow lived within it. He exploited the directors and made them produce his operas under an alias, and collected his share of the profits. He had a talent for making money," he chuckled.

"He had a talent for making music," she muttered bitterly.

"More than a talent, a gift. It was a waste of a beautiful, tortured mind, but he was corrupted and had no morals, Christine. No one ever taught them to him, so it wasn't his fault, but still..." he trailed off, before sighing. "I'm not saying I thought he should die, but some might argue that he deserved –"

"He did _not_ deserve to die, monsieur!" Christine cried angrily. "I hope you go through every day of your like knowing that it's _your_ fault Erik is dead, because you betrayed him! You say you were his _friend_? You simply used and injured him!" she accused. Nadir nodded sadly.

"I do regret betraying him. But Christine, after what we saw when we came into that room... I only wish we were able to save you sooner," he murmured.

"He didn't _rape_ me, I love him, monsieur! I _love_ him and you as good as killed him!" she cried, jumping up from the settee and storming out of the room without another word, slamming the door to her bedroom behind her.

Nadir leant forwards on the settee, burying his head in his hands. He owed it to Erik's memory to look after Christine. But it was going to be hard to help her heal, especially as she obviously blamed _him_ for his death.

Nadir got up and left the apartment without attempting to speak to Christine again. He would return the next day, and the next, until she had healed herself.

* * *

"You have very _jolie_ hair, Christine," Madame Giry informed the young woman, brushing her long curls back with a silver comb.

"My – My mother had hair like mine," she murmured quietly, her eyes cast out into the dark Parisian night outside the window.

"Did you have a good chat with Nadir today, Christine?" the older woman questioned cautiously. Christine scoffed.

"He thinks he did the right thing," she practically spat.

"Oh, my dear little one, you must trust that he _did_, that we were all only trying to protect you," she hushed her gently.

Madame Giry didn't want to push her chances, Christine had crept out of her room for dinner that night and ate a mouthful or two, but it was clear she was running on autopilot, she seemed to have no purpose for her existence. So she had convinced her to sit in the living room with her so she could brush her lovely hair, and perhaps have a bit of a conversation.

Up until that point it had been going quite well. Madame Giry told the girl a little about her life, about how she had been training to be a ballerina since she was very young, but an accident during rehearsal left her unable to dance professionally again. She went to university from there to study to be a doctor, and now had a position as both the company doctor and choreographer at the same theatre in Paris that Christine had once eared a small living before becoming the au pair of Carlotta Guidicelli's family. She told her about her daughter and her ex husband, and how Meg was training to be a star in the company.

The moment those fatal words slipped from Madame Giry's lips Christine tore away and stormed into her room without another word.

Madame Giry couldn't help but be confused. After all, the girl was kidnapped and from what she saw when they entered the room – abused by Erik, that tyrannical monster of a man. She simply wanted to help the girl, but she honestly didn't know what she could do.

She had a sneaking suspicion that all she could do was wait.

* * *

Christine didn't get better; she only appeared more stable over the coming weeks. She spent her days in the apartment or sometimes went for a walk with Nadir, who visited her every day. They would sometimes discuss Erik, but for the most part, he was attempting to ease her into a normal life once more. She could understand his concern, but she did sometimes wish he would just leave her alone. She wanted everyone to leave her alone and stop trying to help her 'heal'. She wasn't healing, and she very much doubted she ever could. She wouldn't want to.

But even though all she craved was isolation, she did feel comforted to have Nadir near her. She was sure she would have killed herself if it weren't for him – he kept her going, and although she found herself often angry with him, she was certain that she needed him.

"Are you still having nightmares?" Nadir questioned one day as they sat down on a bench in the grassy part near to Madame Giry's apartment. Christine nodded.

"Most nights I see... I see what happened," she answered. "But sometimes it's different, sometimes I see that night he kidnapped me, and sometimes they start off well, we're down on the beach or we're practising music again, or..." she trailed off with a bright blush. Nadir gave a tiny smile in understanding.

"And why do you think you see these things? Are they memories?" he questioned softly. She shrugged.

"Some of them are, but some of them are different. And no matter how they start they always end... horribly," she shuddered with a rasping sigh, leaning forwards on the bench. She could see small children playing around her, laughing, enjoying themselves. She hated the sight. She wanted everyone to be weeping.

"But can you see that pattern of his behaviour? Can you remember those signs I mentioned? About when you know he was manipulating you?" he enquired with a slight frown. She gave an annoyed huff.

"I've told you. I _wanted_ to make love to him. He gave me the opportunity to leave, he even tried to force me to go once, but I stayed because I _wanted_ to," she insisted angrily, her eyes alight with anger.

"It's sometimes hard to recognise, his voice changes slightly and he looks right into your eyes as if he could see right through you. He could manipulate a man into taking his own life if he wished," he interrupted. Christine scoffed.

"Even if he _was_ manipulating me, I don't care. I love him, I still do," she argued firmly. Nadir sighed.

"You sound tired. I should take you back now," he decided.

"No. No, I don't want to go back yet. Meg is always so happy and Madame Giry always wants to cheer me up... I just – I want to be sad and not have to hide it," she muttered bitterly. Nadir gave her a comforting smile.

"Alright. I'd like to hear you tell me a little more about your time with Erik," he requested, to which she nodded.

"He would teach me. He was a great teacher. He'd tell me about history and art and science, but I preferred to learn about music. We had music lessons every day," she informed him.

"What did he teach you to play?"

"He taught me to sing, mostly. We played the piano a bit, but he said I had more potential as a singer. He sang to me sometimes, too, when I asked him. He said one day he wanted me to join an opera company," she sighed, playing with a loose thread on the hem of her dress.

"And would you like to?" he questioned. She shrugged.

"He said I wasn't ready yet," she muttered.

"But Erik had very high standards. I'd like if you could sing for me one day, Christine. He mentioned you once or twice to me, you know," he commented. Christine looked up in surprise.

"I thought you didn't –"

"This was many years ago, we saw each other occasionally when he left Paris. I asked him what he had been doing in Switzerland and he told me a little about you, how he thought you had the potential to be one of the purist singers he had ever heard, but you needed to be taught," he began. She didn't even have the heart to look honoured; she just wanted to hear what Erik had thought about her. "He often asked your father if he could keep you, despite my constant assurances that parents don't just give their children to others. It was rather amusing, I had to explain that although you were a child, and he hated children, you weren't a possession and your father wasn't just going to give you up because he wished to teach you to sing," he chuckled. Christine gave a small smile.

"That sounds like him," she murmured, before sighing. "He hated children? Does that mean he hated me?" she questioned with a slight frown.

"No, he adored you, actually," he chuckled. Christine blushed.

"Truly?" she questioned, her eyes wide with disbelief. Nadir nodded.

"As much as Erik was able to, which isn't much, but for him, it was impressive," he assured her with a comforting smile. "He tried to hide it, but he used to make toys for you. I think for the most part he just saw your voice, I know he was frustrated that you were so young and there was so little that could be done for your voice at that stage," he carefully explained. "He never had a childhood, and I believe he resented other children for that. He simply could not tolerate them; the youngest he was ever able to stand was either you or Jammes. But he almost ignored Jammes, he didn't have the patience or gentleness to deal with anyone less mature he was," he continued. Christine nodded slowly.

"He was gentle. Maybe not to you, but there were moments when he... he seemed to want nothing more than to be able to just hold me, or when I was upset he would be so – so –" she stopped herself with a small sniffle. Nadir hushed her softly and placed his hand on her back in a warm, comforting gesture.

"Is it getting easier?" he asked gently. She shook her head as the tears began to claim her.

"No. No, it's not, and I don't want it to either – he deserves to have someone mourn for him!" she insisted angrily. Nadir gave a long, slow sigh.

"I know he does. And it's the most beautiful thing you could have given him. Everyone deserves someone to mourn them when they are gone," he agreed.

"Why did Raoul have to do that? _Why_? Erik wasn't going to hurt him!" she snapped angrily.

"Raoul was frightened. He was desperate to get you back when you disappeared, he spent months in agony and when he finally had you he was prepared to do everything for you," he explained gently. Christine gave an angry scoff. "Christine, Raoul loves you very much. Much more than I could ever imagine Erik loving someone. Erik was honourable, but he didn't have the capability to love," he continued quietly, his concerned eyes patiently waiting for a reaction.

"If you only knew him, Nadir, you wouldn't say such a thing. When you're loved by Erik you come to understand that there's no other love in the world that came come even close," she replied coolly. "And Raoul killed him. Raoul _murdered_ the most honourable man who ever lived out of fear," she added, his tone laced with bitterness.

"Could you ever forgive him?"

"No. And I never thought myself bitter before, but I could spend my entire life watching him do good, honourable deeds and still never forgive him. So I don't even want you to make me attempt it," she snapped. Nadir nodded.

"Christine, what are you going to do? You have to get over this someday," he reminded her. She cast her eyes out over the still pond with a glazed, far off expression.

"I don't know. The only question seems to be should I stay and live with the memory of Erik, or should I go," she muttered. "And it hurts so much Nadir, it hurts so much that I don't think I _could_ stay, even if I wanted to," she confessed, turning to him with tearful eyes.

"He wouldn't want –"

"Don't even _try_ to tell me that, you _knew_ him, Nadir. He wouldn't want me to move on and I don't want to, either," she insisted, eyes flashing darkly. Nadir gave a small, strained smile. He knew that if Erik really _had_ loved her, although he rather doubted it, he would not have wanted her to move on. It wasn't like Erik to do such a thing.

"I think you should speak to Raoul. I know he wants to help you, Christine," he advised. Christine scowled.

"Maybe."

"I'll be with you. We'll go visit him tomorrow and if you want to leave, we can leave. I won't force you, Christine," he assured her. She sighed, and ran a hand through her dark hair before nodding.

"Alright, I'll see him. But not for long – I don't think I could stand to look at him as it is," she finally agreed. Nadir reached for her hand and gave it a comforting squeeze.

"There's a good girl. Now come along, I'd best take you back," he decided. She nodded, and rose to her feet.

Nadir lingered by the door to the apartment a moment before he left. He cared for the girl, there was no denying it. But he _had_ to let her know that Erik clearly wasn't who she thought he was – perhaps then she would be able to be rid of the curse that had been placed on her.

**A/N: I hate university. Just thought I might put that out there. I hate spending three hours on a yucky train every day and I hate being surrounded by hundreds of people on a constant basis. Bleugh. Only five years left! Yay...**

**Anyway, so the angst has begun. Please don't ask why Christine hasn't killed herself or anything like that yet, you will hear more of that in the third volume. Incidentally, this is the first chapter of volume two. But, just for the record, this isn't the last of Erik. Not at all.**

**-Evie**


	20. The Audition

"Alors... you are well?" Raoul questioned nervously, wringing his hands together as his eyes greedily took in the familiar yet foreign form of Christine as she sat before him. Her skin was pallid, her face looked drawn and she had lost too much weight, and the spark he had come to associate with the Christine he loved was gone – it had been replaced with something different, something he couldn't understand as it twinkled in her emerald eyes.

"Enough, I suppose," she replied, her tone clipped. Nadir placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. Her eyes flickered over to him for just a moment before returning to her lap. She did not look comfortable in black harem pants obviously owned by Meg and an ill fitting jumper, but then again, she didn't look comfortable at all in his home at all. He knew that she had been brought there against her will.

"Have you been eating well? Getting plenty of rest? Nadir tells me you have nightmares," he continued with hurried concern. She shrugged slightly.

"I eat if I can, I sleep if I can and I always have nightmares, even when I'm awake," she replied simply, still not even glancing up.

"Are – are they about what happened? About what he did to you?" he questioned with hushed anxiousness.

"No. Each night I see you murdering him, actually," was all she answered, her voice so low he almost missed it.

"It was self-defence, Christine, hardly _murder_! And after what he did to you – he doesn't deserve to live!" he insisted angrily. Nadir flashed him a warning glare but it was too late. Christine had already risen from the chaise, her dark hair tossed back and an angry fire flaming in her eyes.

"It is _not_ self-defence to shoot someone who doesn't have a gun and who isn't trying to hurt you – it's murder! And he didn't deserve to be slaughtered by the likes of _you_!" she cried angrily. Raoul was in shock as he took in the creature before him, but before he had a chance to respond, to defend himself, Nadir had wrapped an arm around Christine's lithe shoulders and was pulling her back even as she tried to lunge violently at him, before he led her out of the Parisian townhouse without even glancing back.

Raoul slunk into his armchair with a cold feeling of confusion and longing overtaking him. He wanted Christine back so badly, the Christine he knew and loved, and he couldn't understand why she seemed to resent him for shooting that _beast_, after what he had seen when he walked into the room! He was about to rape her – as he had probably done countless times over the past five months she had been alone.

He resolved to leave her to herself for a little while longer before making another attempt to restore her affections. She was probably so damaged from her ordeal that he had no option but to wait till she was able to move on with her life.

* * *

"You're right. She looks a lot better already, Nadir," Madame Giry commented with a small smile as she turned to watch the waifish creature that had been pottering around her apartment for the past few weeks. She was more than a little concerned for Christine; the girl seemed to be simply fading away. Each day she grew thinner, paler and spoke less. It had reached a point where she seemed to only speak to Nadir. Her days consisted of waking up, sitting around the apartment in silence until Nadir came to speak with her for an hour or two before she returned and sat in her room until nightfall. Occasionally she would see Raoul, but on those days she seemed to take two steps backwards in any slight improvements they might have noticed. Secretly, Nadir suspected that by simply seeing Raoul she was trying to cause herself more pain, as if that could possibly bring Erik back.

"She told me that Erik used to teach her music. I've spent so much time trying to take her mind off him that I think she might be ready to try to work through things," he shrugged simply, his eyes following the girl as she walked silently through the busy wings of the theatre.

"You're not going to show her where he lived, are you?" Madame Giry questioned doubtfully. He shook his head.

"No, of course not. She doesn't know this was his theatre – she doesn't even know how close you were to her parents," he said, with a slight frown of disapproval. "But I thought I might take her to one of the practise rooms and ask her to play or sing something for me. I think she would appreciate that," he added, after a moment of thought. Madame Giry sighed, and then nodded.

"Alright. But you know if she gets any worse we will have to take her to a hospital. She barely eats, she barely sleeps, I'm very worried for her," she said anxiously. "I think she's planning on killing herself, Nadir. It can't go on like this – we have to do something before it's too late," she stressed. Nadir nodded.

"I understand. But I'm trying to stop her from reaching that point. I'd best let you get back to work, you must have your hands full," he smiled with a small pat on the woman's shoulder. She nodded gratefully and then bustled away to organise her dancers for the briefing of the new production the theatre was due to open. "Christine. Would you like to go have a look around?" he called, walking over to the young woman. She turned around in surprise, as if snapping out of a trance.

"Oh. Uh, alright, if you would like," she murmured, looking around the room with suspicion. He made her take his hand as he led them through the wings and past the dressing rooms.

"So, what do you have to recall today?" he questioned curiously. It had become a routine of late, each day he would ask her to tell him or something that had happened through her time with Erik. He believed it was helping her put the ordeal past her, by considering it and being able to move on.

"The swordfight. I haven't told you about the swordfight," she said decidedly. Nadir's eyes widened in surprise.

"I hope you didn't challenge him. I always told him there was no point in learning fencing – but he's _very_ good," he exclaimed as they passed through the wings, deeper into the theatre.

"It was the first time I tried to escape. I was planning on just walking through the front door, but I needed something to break the lock. There were two suits of armour in the entrance, so I grabbed one of the swords, and then when Erik came out he said if I could beat him he would let me go," she explained with a shrug. Nadir laughed out loud, his dark eyes alight with amusement.

"Oh dear. Well, I assume he won?" he questioned. She nodded with a slightly petulant frown.

"Yes. Bien sûr. I just wish I hadn't spent so much time fighting with him," she murmured quietly. Nadir sighed, but resisted the urge to object. She genuinely seemed to love Erik; he had no place in chastising her for mourning his loss. He was there to gradually replace and heal what he had been partially responsible for taking from her.

"I thought you might want to play the piano for a little while, Christine," Nadir offered, pulling open the door to a small practise room. In it sat a baby grand piano, a few chairs and a changing screen. Christine briefly recognised the room as one of Carlotta's favourite to warm up – or rather, shriek at varying pitches.

Christine stared at it with slightly narrowed eyes.

"Why are you doing this?" she questioned quietly.

"I know you love music."

"If only you could give me back everything I love," she returned bitterly. Nadir sighed.

"This is at least within my power. Would you like me to stay or go?" he enquired as she moved to seat herself before the piano.

"I'd like a little time to myself, if you wouldn't mind," she rasped. He hadn't noticed that she was crying – but she cried every day, so it wasn't a sight he was unfamiliar with.

"Of course. I'll be back in a little while," he replied, before leaving her alone in the room, and strolling back to watch the rehearsal in action.

He really should have returned to Iran weeks ago, but something had kept him from leaving Christine. She just seemed so... helpless, so vulnerable and so fragile. He had a suspicion it had very little to do with her, however, because he was being haunted with a near-crushing guilt about what had happened to Erik, and he owed it to his friend to support what had been left behind after his death. His relationship with Erik had always been strained; but he had a duty.

But apart from this sense of obligation, there was Christine to consider. He had thought she would never wish to see him again, or that she would hate him with whatever energy she had left in her body. He knew that she didn't fight and struggle against Raoul because she was so unbelievably _tired_, and couldn't bring herself to hate him as much as he deserved to be hated. But Nadir had always had a quality of comfort about him; it was what his wife had always said. And comfort was what the girl needed. He wanted to surround her with it so completely that she would forget Erik and forget the pain he had brought her. That was his object – and then, and only then, would he return to Iran.

Nadir silently took a seat in the audience pit. He wasn't so much watching the briefing onstage and the ensuing arguments as much as he was thinking about Erik. Being there, in that theatre, it made him uneasy. He felt like he was being watched. Silently considering his options with Christine, he watched the cast members bustle around the stage and in the wings for a little while, but it wasn't long before he simply could not stand to hear that ridiculous diva Carlotta screech for another second, so he began to wander back through the wings.

He stopped just before reaching Christine's practise room when he heard something.

It was... singing. But it was more than just _singing_, it was the most ethereal, pure and crystal-like sound he had ever heard ringing out through the hall. It had a quality to it that he had only ever heard one man possess, and that man was dead. It couldn't be...

He stepped forwards cautiously and the sound grew louder til he was finally standing just before the door to the room where he had left his ward.

"_Wishing you were somehow here again!_

_Knowing we must say goodbye..._

_Try to forgive, teach me to live, _

_Give me the strength to try!"_

He pushed the door open unknowingly, as if in a trance. The song ended abruptly and Christine turned with flushing cheeks.

"I didn't hear you knock," she said blankly.

"I – I didn't," he murmured, still in a sort of daze. He blinked and shook his head slightly to awaken himself from whatever spell she had placed over him. "Erik taught you to sing like that, didn't he," he stated. There was no question; he knew it could be no one else. She nodded.

"But he said I'm not ready yet. I still have a long way to go," she objected, turning back to the piano, and longingly running her fingers over the keys.

"I told you before that Erik had very high standards. Christine, your voice is like none I've ever heard, apart from Erik's. You must sing for someone else," he decided firmly. She looked up to him and shook her head.

"No. I don't want to," she murmured.

"But you have to! It's what Erik would have wanted!" he insisted, stepping forwards. He was seized with a sudden sense of fear. She _had_ to sing – it was the only thing she had shown any sort of passion for since returning to Paris, and with a voice like hers... it would be a crime against music itself for her not to sing!

Her eyes lowered, as if in shame.

"I know he would have. That's all he would have wanted from me," she said softly.

"Then why have you not sung before?"

"I... I don't know if I'm going to be strong enough to – to –" she stopped with a small sob, and leant her elbows against the keys, her hands tangling in her dark hair. "I only ever sang for _Erik_, it just makes me remember everything, and it hurts, Nadir!" she cried angrily.

"All Erik could ever have wanted was that the beauty of his music lived on in the world," Nadir insisted passionately. Christine wiped away a stray tear.

"No. This world won't forget his gift, but I just don't know if I..." she sighed. "It's hard to go on like this," she quietly sniffled.

"But does it help?"

"It cuts the pain in half, but when the music stops it makes it hurt twice as much as it ever did," she said, frightening him with the rawness of her voice.

"Please. Sing for Erik. Sing for me," he begged. She shrugged.

"Maybe. But singing won't change anything."

"Trust me, Christine. It will."

She glanced up to him with her wide eyes dark with tears, and nodded. He gave her a comforting smile in return.

"Come on. Let's go sit in the theatre for a while and watch them rehearse, there's a diva up there who sounds absolutely horrific compared to you," he smiled, taking her hand and leading her out of the practise rooms, with her looking suspiciously over her shoulder as they went. Christine winced when they approached the main auditorium.

"It sounds like Carlotta," she muttered miserably.

"Your old employer?" he questioned, glancing over his shoulder to her. She nodded.

"I suppose she must hate me now. Not that she ever _did_ like me," she sighed, allowing Nadir to lead her into the rows of seats, not far from where the managers were seated. "What are they rehearsing?" she asked softly, glancing up to the stage.

"Well, this might interest you. Apparently they've dropped the opera they were going to perform this season in favour of something new. But they don't seem very happy about it," he explained, his voice in a slight hush.

"Attention! We'll take it from the beginning, strings, pay attention, you've been behind in the signature," called Reyer, the conductor, a short little man with wiry grey hair and a prominent frown. The orchestra grumbled as they prepared their instruments before being counted in.

Christine sat up almost immediately as soon as the music began to play, with a slight frown on her lips.

"What is it?" Nadir questioned with concern.

"This music..." she murmured, her whole body tensing. "Only Erik would use a three-two time signature and then go to a seven-four. And only Erik would completely disregard the need to stick to the key – but they're playing it wrong," she murmured. "It _must_ have been written in seven-eight. They're getting their time signature all muddled up!" she continued, almost anxiously.

"Then tell them," Nadir chuckled. She eased back into her chair and shook her head.

"No. I can't. But I _know_ this is Erik's music – I've heard him play that ostinato a hundred times before," she insisted firmly.

"Christine, Erik had composed dozens of operas, and they've been performed all around Europe. A good fifteen years ago this theatre was putting out four of his operas a year, so you're probably correct," he assured her gently. She still watched the orchestra, her whole body tense.

"But it's so _familiar_."

"I haven't heard it before, but then again I'm not very fond of music, so I've only seen one or two of his operas. But I suppose it sounds a little unusual compared to his usual style," he shrugged.

They watched the rehearsal for another few minutes until Carlotta appeared, decked from head to toe in dazzlingly expensive designer label clothing and jewels, even for rehearsal, commanding the stage as she always did.

"Have you seen my part? It is _pathetic!_ You'll never fill the lead – unless you give me the role I will leave for good!" she declared angrily, tossing down her copy of the script beneath her snakeskin heels, and throwing her dark hair back petulantly.

"The instructions were to give _you_ the part you already have, Carlotta! We cannot afford to make any adjustments!" insisted one of the managers from the audience. Christine vaguely recognised him as Monsieur Firmin, and the man sitting beside him with a mournful expression was André.

"I do not _care!_ I am the only reason this theatre is still alive and I _demand_ my talents to be recognised!" she cried angrily, her face turning red with fury.

"Singora, _please_, you will audition next week? I'm _sure_ you will secure the role, but we cannot simply give it to you without disobeying instructions!" André interjected pleadingly.

"Oh, lovely. What is _that_ brat doing here?" Carlotta snapped suddenly, glancing up to see Christine sitting in the audience. All turned immediately and a chorus of whispers broke out.

"Isn't that the girl that went missing?" André questioned Firmin, as if she couldn't hear them.

"I believe so. Apparently they recovered her," he replied in a hushed tone that still echoed around the theatre.

"She did not go _missing_, she walked out on me! I had to hire a nanny for _weeks_ before I could get another _au pair_ when that little brat disappeared!" Carlotta shrieked.

"Can we go, Nadir? Please?" Christine begged her companion, gripping onto his arm. He nodded and gave her a comforting smile as he led her out of the theatre, ignoring Carlotta's screeching from the stage.

"Are you alright?"

"That was Erik's music. I know it was," was all she said the moment they stepped into the foyer. Nadir stopped and turned to her.

"Did you hear what they were talking about? I think they mentioned auditions. Christine, I think this could be very good for you," he commented, placing a hand on her shoulder. She nodded thoughtfully.

"I have none of Erik's music. I would like to be able to listen to it," she said quietly.

"We can speak to Madame Giry, but I would very much like it if you could take that role they mentioned."

Christine sighed, and shrugged. "Maybe. I have to think about it," she replied. Nadir smiled.

"That's enough for me, for now. Shall we go visit Raoul, or would you like to go home now?" he suggested.

"No. I don't want to see Raoul. I want to stop seeing him," she answered, hugging herself with slender arms.

"You look rather pale. Are you eating enough?" he questioned with concern. She shrugged.

"I don't know. I eat when I can, but I never feel hungry," she replied simply. He nodded in understanding, and was surprised when she stepped towards him, and pressed her head against his shoulder. He wound his arms around her slender frame to hold her in a warm embrace.

"It's going to get easier," he assured her quietly. She shook her head, and gave a small sob.

"No, it won't. It doesn't even feel real. I really miss him," she confessed, her voice so quiet he almost didn't hear her. He smoothed back her hair.

"Well, you have me, so hopefully I can make up for his loss a little," he chuckled. She stepped back with a half-hearted smile.

"Thank you, Nadir, for looking after me," she said softly. He felt himself blushing.

"It's a pleasure to be here for you, Christine," he assured her. She sighed, and glanced around the Paris streets.

"I think I'll walk back to the apartment myself, I want the fresh air," she declared. Nadir raised a brow.

"Alright, but be _careful_. I'll come visit you tomorrow at the same time and we'll discuss this some more," he decided. She nodded, and then without another word slipped out into the Parisian street.

The moment she was gone Nadir turned sharply. He felt rather stupid to see nothing at all behind him, but he had a feeling... he shuddered slightly. He had never heard that opera before, and he _had_ listened to all of Erik's works that the theatre had performed. It was new.

Nadir gave another cautious glance over his shoulder before leaving the opera.

Something was suspicious, but he just couldn't say what yet.

* * *

Christine sighed as she leant back in the warm water of the small bath in the _salle de bains_ of Madame Giry's three bedroom apartment. She caught herself humming again – she had been doing that a lot over the past few days. Humming or singing Erik's music gave her an incredible sense of comfort where previously there had been none. She had been contemplating suicide, there was no point denying that she had nothing to live for and the most important part of her life was gone now, but when his music filled her ears she was suddenly lifted to another place where he was right beside her. It was like her guilty pleasure which she could grow drunk on.

She sighed deeply with the strain of the past few days. She appreciated what Nadir was trying to do for her, but sometimes she just wished he would stop caring so she could sink into her catharsis and never be woken. The only things she clung onto was Erik's music in her ears and hearing about Erik's past and who he was before he knew her. She loved to hear the small little anecdotes Nadir would mention sometimes, they filled her with a sense of warm nostalgia that almost made the agony bearable. It would never go away, and it would never even fade so she could forget it, but she didn't want it to. She wanted to hurt, because it was all she had left of Erik.

"Christine? Will you be much longer? Nadir is here to talk to you," came a call from outside the bathroom. Christine sat up and washed off the layer of bubbles on her skin.

"I'll be out in a moment, Madame Giry," she called in return, rising to her feet and reaching for a towel. She wrapped it around herself before slipping out of the bathroom. "Oh. Hello Nadir. Can you give me a moment to get changed?" she requested the shocked-looking Iranian when she met him in the hallway.

"Oh. Uh – yes, of course," he muttered, a slight flush rising to his chocolate-coloured cheeks. She gave him a strained smile and slipped past him to her bedroom, well-aware that he was watching her walk. But Christine didn't care – she didn't care if he thought her attractive, or if _anyone_ thought her attractive, because her skin still burned from the touch of Erik nine weeks after they spent one amazing night of passion together, and nothing could replace that. She thought about it often, only wishing she had gotten over her anxieties earlier so she could have spent more nights tangled in his sheets.

Nadir had asked her about her 'physical relationship with Erik', as he called it, not that long ago. They had been in the park once more, and he brought up what he saw when he, Madame Giry and Raoul burst into the bedroom on that horrible morning.

"What exactly are you asking, Nadir?" she had frowned when he brought it up. He looked slightly sheepish.

"You say he didn't try to rape you, but... I know what I saw, Christine," he reiterated. She sighed.

"No, you don't. We were laughing and teasing each other. I didn't want him to get hurt when we left separately for Vienna, and he tried to make a deal that if he returned without a scratch he would get to 'have his way with me'," she explained shortly.

"That still doesn't sound very innocent, Christine," he replied sternly. She scoffed.

"You've not asked me if it was innocent or not, Nadir. It was innocent of any force on his side or mine, if that's what you want to know," she snapped, tossing her dark hair back behind her shoulder.

"But what is it guilty of?" Nadir questioned with a raised brow. She turned to him accusingly.

"Do you want to know if Erik and I were lovers?" she challenged. Nadir cleared his throat and avoided her eyes.

"I don't know if that's –"

"Well I suppose we were. We made love, so I think it counts," she retorted coolly. He glanced up with another questioning expression.

"Did you 'make love' or did he –"

"_Nadir!_ I came to _his_ room and told _him_ that I wanted to sleep with _him!_ He was impatient but he would never force me to do anything!" she cried suddenly. A few passersby looked on with shocked expressions and hurried away.

"Is that the truth?"

"_Yes_. He was always making suggestive comments and flirting and now and then he tried to push the boundaries, but he never went too far. I initiated the next step, and I wish I had done it sooner," she informed him pointedly. Nadir sighed, and nodded.

"Alright. I believe you. So it was only that one time?" he questioned gently. She finally blushed.

"Well, it was one _night_. Not one _time_," she murmured slowly, keeping her eyes lowered. Nadir sniggered.

"I'm sorry, it's just –" he began, when she shot him a questioning look, "– he always had a taste for women. He tended not to like them in general, he _despised_ my wife, but his bed was always warm. Like I said, he was a bit of a Don Juan," he chuckled. Christine rolled her eyes.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" she questioned curtly. Nadir coughed guiltily.

"No. Uh, I'm sorry."

She lowered her eyes to her lap and said nothing. He waited for another moment before speaking once more.

"Can I ask – was it at least... safe?" he questioned nervously. She looked at him with a mildly horrified expression. "I don't want you to end up carrying the baby of a dead man, that's all," he assured her. She sniffed, as if offended by his very question.

"Well, _no_, actually, we didn't really think of that, but I'm not pregnant," she replied simply.

"Are you –"

"I'm _absolutely_ sure, Nadir. And if I _were_ pregnant I would be doing everything to keep our child healthy, I would force myself to eat and sleep and I'd probably stop crying so much, so you would have noticed," she informed him firmly. Nadir nodded.

"But... did you want to be? So you could have some part of Erik?" he asked carefully. She shrugged.

"I'm only seventeen. I wouldn't know what to do," she replied simply, kicking a stray leaf with her shoe.

"I couldn't imagine Erik ever being a father," Nadir chuckled.

"Neither could I. So don't make me try to picture it."

With that the discussion had been closed, for which she was grateful, but she knew that Madame Giry and Raoul probably still believed she had been raped by Erik. She didn't care what they thought, but she wanted them to know that Erik wasn't the kind of man they tried to make him out as being, evil and violent. He truly wasn't, not with her.

She changed quickly and returned to the living room to find Nadir sitting down with an untouched cup of tea before him. He looked slightly disconcerted.

"Oh, good. You're ready. I wanted to talk to you about the auditions," he began, as she sat down before him.

"I've already told you I would audition. Isn't that enough?" she questioned tiredly.

"Apparently someone – and not me, don't worry, I wasn't sticking my nose into this – told the managers of your skill and they want to hear you sing as soon as you can. Before the auditions, even," he informed her with a warm smile. She frowned with suspicion.

"What do you mean? Who else could it be?" she exclaimed.

"Raoul, Madame Giry, Meg, anyone," he shrugged, but it was clear that wasn't concerning him. "I thought, if you felt up to it, we would go down to the theatre today and you can perform for the managers and the conductor, but I'm quite certain you'll have the part, Christine," he continued, obviously trying to make her match his excitement. She nodded.

"Alright, I suppose. But you mustn't get too excited, Erik said I wasn't ready," she warned him. Nadir waved her off.

"Nonsense. Come along then, get whatever you need and we'll go now," he commanded. She sighed, and then left for her bedroom. She tied her hair back before grabbing a pair of shoes and a coat, and then met Nadir back in the parlour. "Wonderful. Will you be warm enough? I suppose so, let's go," he instructed, taking her arm and leading her out of the apartment.

To Christine, Nadir seemed strangely... eager. But she didn't think it was out of his excitement for her to sing, it was almost... anxiety. Fear. Worry. And she didn't like that; it made her think something was going on.

They walked quickly to the theatre, Nadir citing the chilly afternoon but Christine knew it was a little more than that. When they arrived she was ushered through to the offices before she really knew what was happening, and a door was thrust open. In the room were three anxious looking men; Reyer, the conductor, and the two managers André and Firmin.

"Good. You've got her. Well, let's get this over with," André sighed, sitting himself down with his hands folded over his lap and an anxious expression on his face. He and the other men were glancing around the room with suspicion.

"What is it? Why do you all seem so... afraid?" she questioned, turning to Nadir, who gave her an airy chuckle.

"Nonsense, Christine. There's a piano just down the hall, if you would like to warm up a little," he informed her. She nodded, and glanced to the gentlemen once more with a confused expression, before slipping out of the room.

Nadir closed the door with a relieved sigh as he glanced to the clock.

"Well, I got her here as soon as I could," he muttered.

"The note said two o'clock, it's fifteen past, Nadir," Firmin snapped, but he sounded more fearful than annoyed.

"I doubt it matters, she's here now, and she'll sing for you in a few minutes," he snapped, glancing around the room. No one could be watching, could they?

"Does she even _need_ to sing? The note was very clear, 'Christine Daaé will sing the role of Aminta, and no one else, or a great misfortune shall come upon you'," André read aloud after snatching up the note that lay on the desk.

"It's just like before. Half my orchestra went missing when he 'disapproved' of them – I thought we were rid of him!" Reyer complained nervously, beginning to pace.

"Nothing like that is going to happen. Erik is dead, I saw it. It's someone's idea of a cruel joke," Nadir insisted, but from the tone of his voice it was perfectly clear he didn't believe it.

"Either you're right, and our Opera Ghost _did_ die and has now risen from the grave, or you're wrong, and you didn't see what you thought you saw," Firmin returned, his voice firm. "But either way, 'the Phantom of the Opera' is back," he said.

"And now we have to employ some child as the lead soprano! La Carlotta will be furious, and we're bound to lose a fortune, performing a new, unknown opera with a new, unknown singer," André snapped, petulantly digging his hands into his pockets.

"She's amazing. When you hear here you'll know why Erik saw potential in her," Nadir insisted, his voice firm.

"She had better be, Monsieur. Because this theatre can't afford to pay the royalties the Phantom demands _and_ have this opera be a flop," Reyer warned sharply.

"When have the Phantom's operas ever failed?" Nadir questioned dryly.

"I count it as a _failure_ when half my orchestra disappears because he thinks the brass section is flat!" Reyer cried angrily.

Nadir's objection was interrupted when the door was slowly pushed open, and a confused, concerned face peered in.

"Are you alright? I heard raised voices," Christine murmured, stepping into the room and looking between the men assembled there. Nadir gave her a comforting smile.

"That's alright, we were just having a bit of an argument, men do that quite often, Christine," he assured her. She nodded carefully, wringing her hands together.

"Alright, Mademoiselle, if you please?" Reyer requested, clearing his throat and switching on an electronic keyboard in the corner of the room. "What am I to play?" he questioned.

"Uh – I don't know if you would know it. It's called 'Think of Me'," she replied. Reyer's brow instantly shot up.

"I _do_ know it, young lady; this opera house ran it probably before you were born. I doubt you'll be able to pull it off, but nevertheless, I will play it," he snapped, clearly offended she had thought he wouldn't recognise the piece. He turned back to the keyboard and then promptly began to play.

Christine took a deep breath from her diaphragm, and began to sing.

"_Think of me, think of me fondly,_

_When we've said goodbye!_

_Remember me, once in a while,  
Please promise me you'll try_

_When you find, that once again you long,  
To take your heart back and be free,  
If you ever find a moment,  
Spare a thought for me..._,"

She sang clearly, her voice ringing out through the room with crystal-clear pitch perfection. She had been nervous out in the hall, if she wanted to admit to herself, but a strange sense of familiarity filled her, and she could swear she heard Erik's voice whispering against her ear, guiding, directing her as she warmed up. It filled her with confidence and hope – she would sing Erik's music for his memory. And she would sing it as well as she could in his absence.

"_We never said our love was evergreen,  
Or as unchanging as the sea,  
But if you can still remember, stop and think of me...  
Think of all the things we've shared and seen -  
Don't think about the things which might have been..._"

She could almost feel Erik's arms around her as he guided her breathing. She pictured those long days in the music room where they practised that song over and over until he believed she had it down to perfection. And, as Nadir said, he _was_ rather fussy.

"_Think of me, think of me waking, silent and resigned,  
Imagine me, trying too hard to put you from my mind  
Recall those days look back on all those times,  
Think of the things we'll never do -  
There will never be a day, when  
I won't think of you..."_

She refused to even glance at Nadir or the managers or even Reyer, with his back tensed and turned to the keyboard. She just sung, because even if she didn't get the part, she felt closer to Erik in that moment than she had since his death. It was the sweetest gift.

"_Flowers fade, the fruits of summer fade,_

_They have their seasons, so do we_

_But please promise me, that sometimes,_

_You will think of..._

_Me!_"

She allowed her voice to fade off after the final operatic phrase. The keyboards fell into silence and the room suddenly seemed very quiet. She turned to Nadir, who had a dreamy, far-off expression on his face.

"That was..."

"Amazing! Her pitch, it was perfect!"

"Incredible."

"_Everything_ is perfect!"

"It will certainly bring in the crowds."

"She's very pretty, too. Oh, this is splendid!"

"Well, she can _certainly_ sing the part."

"It was as if it were _made_ for her!"

"He might have been a monster, but he did have good taste."

"Perfection! We might as well send _La Carlotta_ home now."

"See? Christine, they love you," Nadir smiled, placing a warm hand on her shoulder while Firmin and André went back and forth. She blushed, and nodded as they took her in eagerly.

"Do you dance, too, child?" André questioned excitedly. She nodded.

"Yes, but I don't have any slippers, and I haven't practised for a year," she replied, somewhat ashamedly. Firmin waved her objection off.

"Nonsense! We can give you shoes, that's not a problem. How old are you?" he questioned immediately.

"Seventeen, monsieur."

"And when do you turn of age?"

"Not for another six or seven months. Is that a problem?" she frowned.

"We just have to be careful about the hours she's permitted to work, as she's still a child," André decided, before cackling with glee as he picked up a note sitting on his desk. "Gentlemen, I think this is going to be a _very_ good season," he decided.

"So I have a part?" Christine questioned, turning to Nadir.

"Not only _a_ part, my dear child, but _the_ part. You must begin as soon as possible," Reyer practically sniffed. She nodded.

"Of course."

"And now, her salary?" Nadir questioned, stepping forwards.

"Five thousand Euros for the rehearsal period, and then four hundred Euros for each performance," André decided firmly. Nadir raised a brow.

"Seven thousand for the rehearsals, and then six hundred for each show," he challenged.

"Nadir, I don't need –"

"She's a debut performer! That's a ridiculous proposition!" André cried, aghast.

"We won't go any lower than six thousand for the rehearsal, and five hundred for the shows," he warned. André huffed with irritation.

"We will _save_ money, what with La Carlotta taking a smaller part!" Firmin reminded his colleague. André rolled his eyes, but then finally nodded.

"Alright, six thousand Euros for the rehearsal period and then five hundred Euros each performance," he muttered bitterly.

"Excellent. And she'll have a dressing room?" Nadir questioned. Reyer scowled.

"Of course! We're not _barbarians_, Monsieur!" he objected pointedly.

"Well then, please write a check now and we'll be done with this," Nadir replied simply, crossing his arms. André and Firmin both grumbled as they pulled out a check book, and a moment later pressed it into Christine's hands.

"Rehearsals are Monday to Friday from one o'clock to five for the first month, and then we go from twelve to six, Monday to Saturday leading up to the opening night. You will be required to participate in all theatre galas," he André instructed. Christine nodded, and handed Nadir the check, who carefully placed it in his pocket.

"Thank you, Monsieur. It has been a pleasure doing business with you, gentlemen," Nadir nodded, before taking Christine's arm and leading her out of the room with nothing but an 'à demain!' before the door closed behind them.

"We're getting a _very_ good deal, all the same," Firmin commented, glancing back to his companions.

"You don't think she has any involvement with this?" Reyer questioned, gesturing to the note.

"No. Kahn said she was held a hostage for five months, if she knew the truth she would probably be too terrified to perform," André waved him off, before sighing. "With the money we save we should put more into marketing – this girl will be a star," he decided gleefully.

"We'll premiere her next week at the end of the final show for _Il Muto_, that should gain some interest," Firmin decided, his eyes glinting with excitement.

"To think she settled for that price! Carlotta would have demanded three times that, and even _then_ she wouldn't be happy about it!" André sniggered.

"Gentlemen, I don't think it's wise to discuss this here," Reyer hissed. The two men instantly paled and looked around with suspicion.

"You're right. I forgot what it was like to be afraid of your own office," André chuckled nervously, glancing over his shoulder with suspicion.

"Who wants to break the news to La Carlotta?" questioned Firmin suddenly. Reyer and Firmin shuddered.

"I almost forgot about that. It seems we're celebrating too early," André winced.

"Nevertheless, we _should_ celebrate. We'll tell her tomorrow, but for now, gentlemen, I believe champagne is in order. Our usual restaurant?" Firmin suggested, grabbing his coat. His colleagues agreed and left the room laughing about their success.

The moment the door closed a small, sealed note fell seemingly from nowhere to rest upon the desk, only to be discovered that evening as the men returned to the office, still giddy on the wine and their good deal, only to turn pale with fear.

It was certain.

The Phantom of the Opera was well and truly back.

**A/N: There we go, nice long chapter, and the Phantom is back. Less angst in this one, which is good. I can't really explain why Christine has an immediate sort of affinity with Nadir, but it's mostly because Nadir stepped in the moment Erik disappeared, so he's a replacement, almost. **

**So I'm starting to get used to uni now, and all classes are wonderful (but I DID have to pay $400 for textbooks today - which is NOT wonderful), but I still hate the three or four hours of travelling time every day and the massive crowds. Not a fan of that. But still, I'll soldier on :D**


	21. The Theatre

"You really don't have to do this, Christine," Madame Giry assured the young girl sincerely.

"No, I do. You've been very kind to me, and I don't need this," she insisted firmly, holding out the crisp Euros to the woman before her.

"I won't let you give away your wages, Christine," the woman replied sternly.

"Fine then, consider it board. Please, just take it," she practically begged.

"I won't. That's six thousand Euro, it's _far_ too much, even if you did need to pay board," Madame Giry insisted.

"Alright then, take five thousand."

"Non."

"Four thousand."

"Non."

"Three thousand."

"Non."

"Two thousand, and you really _must_ take it," Christine said finally. Madame Giry sighed.

"Fifteen hundred then, but only because the oven is broken. Otherwise I wouldn't let you, Christine," she gave in. Christine smiled and handed the money over to the woman.

"Thank you. I _do_ appreciate all you've done for me, you know. And I want to give something to Meg, too. A present for letting me borrow all her clothes and shoes," she replied, folding the notes into her pocket.

"Meg has tomorrow off, if you would like to go shopping with her in the morning, you know. And I know you need new ballet shoes, perhaps you two could go get what you need before your first rehearsal," she suggested.

"Alright, but I want Nadir to come too," she muttered, her cheeks slightly pink. Madame Giry gave her a comforting smile. It was almost impossible for Christine to leave the apartment without Nadir – she was still nervous around people and crowds, but Nadir acted as a good middle-man. On one hand, Madame Giry didn't approve of Nadir almost taking the place of Erik in Christine's life, as she knew it would only make issues worse later on, but on the other, she was glad that Christine had someone so responsible to look after her.

"Of course. I can call him and ask him to come earlier tomorrow, you three will have a lovely day, I'm sure," Madame Giry smiled, before bustling into the kitchen to make dinner.

Christine went to her room in silence, and lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling.

She felt what she knew was slightly akin to hope. She was sure she had felt Erik that day when she went into the theatre. It could have been simply that he used to work there, but it was... something different. She could almost feel his presence around her, she was certain she heard his voice in her ear as she warmed up, and she thought she could smell his comforting aroma as she sang in the office.

"I must be going mad," she murmured softly to herself, rolling over and staring out into the fading Parisian evening. She was crying before she even realised, but she cried everyday – so it wasn't unusual for her. She felt an aching deep in her chest as she allowed her mind to stray to the thought that Erik was gone.

It always hit her with intensity, pulling her chest apart as she dared contemplate it.

_Erik is gone. He's dead._

She closed her eyes tightly and tried to push that thought from her mind, but it remained.

It would always remain.

* * *

"You didn't come to my room last night," Christine murmured with slight bitterness as she slipped into Erik's embrace. It felt... strangely cold.

"I was up quite late. The blood didn't want to stop, and you were asleep anyway," he apologised, his voice distant, like an echo. Christine pulled back slightly to meet his eyes, which looked glassy as he stared out across the entrance hall.

"I wanted you to come to my room."

"You were sleeping, angel, and I was dying," he reminded her, once again sounding so foreign and far-off.

"I wanted you to come to my room, Erik. Please. Come to me?" she begged softly, but Erik's expression did not change.

"Why should I? You were just one of many," he murmured, his hands loosening at her waist. She frowned, and held to him tightly.

"But I love you, Erik. I love you and I want to be able to show you," she said softly. He didn't even blink.

"It's just a lifetime, Angel. Surely you can wait a lifetime," he muttered vaguely.

"Can't you stay for just a little longer? An hour?" she begged softly.

"No. I can't – the blood won't stop, not even for you," he replied quietly. "Please don't change your mind when I'm gone. Practise the song and I'll be with you as soon as I can," he said finally. She let out cry and pressed forwards, crushing her lips against his, but the more she kissed him the further away he seemed to slip, until he was at the other end of the room and she simply could not run to him.

"Don't follow me," he commanded, his voice reverberating around the castle.

"Be safe, Erik!" Christine cried out desperately.

"Of course, angel," he swore, before he began to fade away. Just before he disappeared he met her eyes from across the room. "I promised I would find you. But the dead can't find the living, can they?" he questioned finally. It was then that Christine noticed the pool of blood forming around him as the bullet-wound in his chest flowed violently.

"Erik! _Erik!_" she screamed, but before she knew it he had faded away completely, and she could feel firm arms shaking her shoulders until she was suddenly jerked awake.

"Christine! Wake up!" she heard Nadir cry in her ear. She gave a loud, choked wail as he pulled her into his arms and held her tightly, gently rocking her back and forth as she wept like a small child, beating her fists against his chest. "It's alright! You're safe – I'm here, Christine. I'm here!" he hushed her gently.

"He's dying! He's _dying_!" she sobbed against his shoulder.

"It's just a dream, Christine. Just a dream," he assured her.

"No! No, I have to see him again!" she cried, pushing Nadir back. She trembled and shook as she slid to the edge of the bed, running quivering hands through her long dark hair. "I want to go back to the castle, I have to see him. I have to know if he's dead!" she insisted, rising to her feet.

"Christine, we can't go back there, it's not –"

"I need to see him!" she shouted wildly, her eyes alight with a desperate sort of fire that made Nadir step back in fear. "I need to know he's dead, I need to know I'm not going mad!"

"He's dead, Christine," he said. "He's dead and he's never coming back. There's nothing for you back at the castle."

Christine threw her pillow at him as hard as she could, as if in anger of what he had said. She pushed past him to the wardrobe, and hastily pulled out an old dress that had once fit Meg when she was twelve, but had been given to Christine, who had come with nothing to wear.

"I'm going, Nadir, I need to see his body, and then I'll come back and make Raoul pay for what he took from me!" she insisted, gathering up her meagre possessions from the room. Nadir tried to reach for her, to hold her and stop her anxious movements.

"Seeing him will only make things worse, Christine," Nadir insisted, his hands warm and heavy on her shoulders. "The dead must lie where they are. They leave and they don't come back, you will only prolong his existence in your memory, and that will just hurt you more in the end," he swore. Christine pulled away from him angrily.

"Get away from me! You as good as killed him!" she cried furiously, her legs trembling beneath her.

How that girl looked at him! For a moment she stared at Nadir with such rage, her chin held forwards and her eyes flashing darkly. He could see the passion that Erik must have ignited within her, it almost radiated off her form.

"He's gone, Christine. Try to forget him," he murmured. She stared at him with that burning rage, until she started to quiver, and with a small whimper collapsed against him. He smoothed back her hair with soft hands.

"I – I just n – need to see him. God, it – it _hurts_ so much," she rasped pathetically.

Nadir did not respond.

"I'm sorry – I'm a mess," she murmured, pulling away from him and wiping her eyes. Her body trembled with the intensity of her nightmare.

"That's fine. Do you still feel like going out this morning?" he questioned gently. She nodded.

"Just let me have a shower and get changed, I'll only be a minute," she replied, sliding out of bed and slipping into the bathroom. She turned on the hot water tap and allowed steam to fill the room, hazarding a glance in the mirror.

She looked... different. Pale, draw, too thin and too worn down – she wished she didn't recognise the girl staring back at her in the mirror, but it was an all too familiar sight. She sighed and pulled her hair back before slipping out of her nightgown. Things were going to get better.

She was going to sing Erik's music and feel what she felt in the hallway again.

Things were going to get better.

* * *

Christine's dream caused her mind to wander and her heart to ache as she went shopping with Nadir and Meg that day. She was barely conscious of what was happening around her, she bought herself some essentials and a new handbag for Meg, and she even attempted to buy something for Nadir, even though he refused to allow her to.

But it was all to distract herself from thoughts of Erik, and it did very little. She was anxious to be back in that theatre where she could sense him all around her – she wanted to finish shopping and go to the rehearsal right away, so she hurried through her purchases. By twelve-thirty she had exhausted herself and purchased almost all she needed to survive, as well as a few trinkets for Meg and Madame Giry. Nadir waited for her as she changed into one of her new outfits and packed her new ballet bag, agreeing to take her to the theatre.

"Do you think you could tell me about your nightmare?" he questioned gently when they left the apartment building. She hugged her bag to her chest.

"It started off just like the morning he went to Paris, but... it was different. I knew he wasn't coming back when he started to bleed," she murmured with a slight shrug.

"Can I ask –" Nadir sighed and stopped himself.

"What?"

"You obviously have no hope for the future. I can see that, and you tell me you don't want to live without Erik – so why are you still here, Christine?" he asked softly. She stopped walking in the middle of the crowded Parisian street.

"It's too difficult to explain. I needed to hear his music again, and now I feel like I have to sing for him – I _have_ to," she answered simply. Nadir gave a small, pained smile and a nod.

"I understand. But you know there's more to live for than Erik's memory," he said gently. "You could love again, if that's what you're worried about. And you'll always have me, and Raoul, too. Your life can go on, Christine," he added. Christine gave a small, stale laugh and continued walking.

"If you can say that, then you've never been loved by Erik. Because when he loves you – nothing is ever enough again," she muttered, almost to herself. Nadir did not reply as she walked ahead of him. Each day it seemed like he was posed with a moment where he honestly had no idea what to say to her – it was as if she was beyond help, even though he desperately wanted to bring her back. He didn't even know why, but perhaps something selfish in him wanted to see Christine smile for him.

Christine had to admit that she was nervous when she arrived at the theatre with Nadir. She shivered as she walked through the halls, immediately that familiar feeling of Erik's presence surrounding her. She breathed it in deep and allowed it to fill her with comfort.

"Come along then, do we go to the main stage?" Nadir questioned.

"I think so, that's how it's normally done," Christine shrugged, allowing Nadir to lead her through the hall to the main auditorium. The doors were already open, and a few faces Christine had seen once or twice when she still worked in the theatre were hanging around, chatting eagerly before the rehearsal.

"Do you want me to leave you now?" Nadir questioned. Christine shook her head.

"Would you mind staying for a little while? I feel a bit nervous," she admitted quietly. He gave her a small smile.

"Of course. I'd like to watch your first rehearsal, if you wouldn't mind," he replied. She nodded.

"It's like my first day at school in France. I feel so frightened, I don't know anyone," she murmured. Nadir placed a comforting, guiding hand on her shoulder.

"Christine, you mustn't worry. It won't take long before you're used to this," he assured her gently as they passed the rows of plush red seats on their way down to the stage where the managers stood, with frowns on their faces.

"Ah! Mademoiselle Daaé, just the person we wanted to see," Firmin declared the moment she approached, taking her from Nadir by moving his hand to the back of her shoulder and leading her over to his colleague, who looked far from pleased. "It seems that we miscalculated your wages yesterday. We rather short-changed you, I'm afraid," he chuckled nervously. Christine blinked.

"You gave me plenty, and I'm very grateful," she replied. André rolled his brown eyes.

"We're willing to offer you another three thousand pounds for the rehearsal period and then an extra two hundred each performance. Would that suit you?" he questioned.

"That's ridiculous. I don't need that much money, please, I was perfectly happy with the wages I had before," she assured them. André shot a nervous glance to his companion, who urged him on anxiously.

"We really must insist. You deserve it, Mademoiselle," André grumbled, when Firmin couldn't bring himself to say it.

"But I haven't even worked yet, it's just silly. I don't know what's gotten into you," she commented, adjusting the strap of her ballet bag. André ran a hand through his hair anxiously.

"We shall discuss this at a later date. Please, Mademoiselle, Monsieur Reyer has your script. You read sheet music?" Firmin questioned with a frown to his companion.

"Oui, bien sûr."

"And you play the piano?"

"Oui."

"Très bien. If you could, Mademoiselle, there are practise rooms through the wings, we would appreciate if you could familiarise yourself with the script today," Firmin requested. Christine nodded.

"Oh. And I would advise you steer clear of La Carlotta," André muttered slightly sheepishly as she moved to go to Monsieur Reyer. She raised a brow.

"Why?"

"She didn't take to the news very... kindly," he winced. She frowned slightly, but did not question that as she stepped over to have a word with Reyer.

"Messieurs, nothing to be concerned about, I assume?" Nadir enquired with a frown. Firmin huffed in annoyance and pulled another note from his pocket.

"He informed us that we were cheating her out of her true earnings, and we needed to rectify that – or else," André muttered. Nadir glanced over the note.

"I can't read this, it's in French. But it does look like Erik's handwriting," he agreed, passing it back to the man.

"Take our word for it. It's rather specific, he's also detailed a full set of instructions for how the Phantom's little angel is to be cared for. He wants her to live in the theatre now, although –"

"She can't. She's still too fragile, she needs someone to watch her at all times," Nadir objected. "If anything, she should be living with _me_," he added firmly.

"Tell _him_ that, monsieur," André retorted pointedly. He was silenced with a stern glare from Nadir as Christine approached.

"I'm going to go practise this in the wings. You can go if you wish, Nadir, but thank you for offering to stay," she smiled in gratitude. He grimaced and informed her briefly that he wished to watch the rehearsal from the audience, and sent her on her way.

"She's very pretty, though," Firmin commented, watching the girl go.

"She'll most certainly be a star. We're having a photographer in soon so we can send out a commission for the marketing of the next production," André replied, before turning back to Nadir. "We must tread carefully with the girl. We can't afford to anger the Phantom," he declared sternly.

"We'll pay her what he's instructed – we don't want any more 'accidents'," Firmin agreed with a firm nod.

"Have you sent anyone down to see –"

"No one will go down there, monsieur. Perhaps if you are brave, you would care to –"

Nadir held up a firm hand by way of silencing André. He didn't want to go anywhere near Erik's former domain beneath the theatre – because if Erik _was_ alive, then he would be one of the first to have an 'accident'. He had been struck down with fear for the past few days; the only person Erik might want to kill more than himself was perhaps Raoul, but the boy had not betrayed his friend. The boy had only wielded a gun like an idiot.

"No. We will just have to be careful. If he _is_ back –"

"Which he obviously _is_," grumbled Firmin.

"If he _is_, then we need to do everything he instructs to the best of our ability, and Christine has to be our main priority. He's made it clear that she comes first," he replied as calmly as he could.

"Then perhaps we _should_ mention living in the theatre to her," André suggested. Nadir sighed, and ran a hand through his dark hair.

"I'll speak to her, but there are no promises. We must tread carefully with her," he decided, before turning away from the two men.

"You're leaving?"

"I have a job, messieurs, and as much as I care for Christine, I still have to make a living," he called out without turning back, leaving the theatre without another word.

* * *

Christine's eyes traced the little black dots and lines sprawled all over the pages of a thick book of music, frowning as she went. It had the mark of Erik all over it – it was in the key and time signatures, the disregard for the key and time signatures he set himself, the extremely polyphonic melodies, the sevenths and the ninths and the almost discordant staccato phrases, so what was it doing in her hands in that practise room? The last she had heard of it had been when Erik informed her they were to practise a piece called 'The Point of No Return' – which was now in that script in its entirety. Could it be that it was one of his old operas?

She sighed as she went through, one hand playing the melody as she hummed along, forming phrases and harmonising with the accompaniment. It was... an unusual opera, to say the least. It seemed to centre around two characters, Aminta, an innocent, naïve little Spanish maiden and Don Juan, the infamous lover who sought out her heart and her bed. For such sordid themes it was surprisingly romantic, it had one or two ballads that sent chills through her even as she glanced over the lyrics.

"Erik, what are you doing to me?" she murmured softly to herself as she put down the music with a sigh.

She shivered suddenly as a chill slipped through the room. She turned suddenly, but nothing had changed, she was still in a small little room with nothing but a piano, a few chairs, an ornate silk screen and a window. She shook her head, as if to shake away the strange presence that had now captured her.

"_Serve the meal and serve the maid_..." she sung softly, frowning at the sheet music as she played. "Erik, for goodness sake – keys were invented for a _reason_," she muttered with annoyance.

She gave another shiver as she could swear she heard a chuckle from somewhere. She looked over her should with suspicion once more, but ignored it. She was being ridiculous. Erik wasn't in the room with her; she was just on edge when she sang his music; that was all.

But she continued to feel that presence for the next few hours as she went through page after page of music, playing the melodies and attempting the phrases tentatively. Somehow it was almost as if... as if Erik was guiding her like he did in those music lessons. He seemed to whisper in the back of her mind when to correct her breathing, when she was flat and when she was sharp, and she could swear at some times that it wasn't just his memory and her own sense of tone, it was really _him_.

The managers wrote her another check before she left that evening. She accepted it with complaint but they were able to convince her to take it, and she slipped it into her pocket, deciding to cash it at the bank on the way home.

Paris was quiet that night as the rain sprinkled down. She breathed in the cool, fresh night air and was instantly filled with flashes of her time with Erik – most particularly, the last time she tried to escape, and they argued outside the garage before kissing passionately against the his car bonnet.

"Mademoiselle? Are you alright?" came a careful questioning from the teller at the bank. She shook herself out of her thoughts and stepped forwards with a small smile.

When she had cashed the check she found she had no desire to return to Madame Giry's apartment. She instead walked down to the banks of the Seine just down from Notre Dame and sat down, her knees pulled up beneath her chin. She cried for some time, staring out into the dark water.

After a warm bowl of chocolate from a small café and several hours of just sitting, her mind lost in thought, she finally decided to return to the apartment. She was crying far too much for her voice to be of any use, and she finally had something to look forward to.

For the first time in weeks she had a purpose, and that was to sing Erik's opera. Nothing else mattered until she had reached that goal.

* * *

"You acted irresponsibly!"

"I thought I was going to have a heart-attack!"

"It was immature, thoughtless and made it perfectly clear to everyone that you're far too consumed with your obsession over Erik to see things clearly," Nadir snapped, glaring down at Christine as she sat, shame-faced on the settee.

"What is he saying? Why is he yelling at her? How dare he!" Raoul snapped angrily, his fists clenching by his side.

"Tell the boy to shut up, I'm not finished," Nadir commanded, before turning back to Christine. "You need to take your head out of the clouds and consider the people who are trying to _help_ you, Christine!" he continued angrily, his dark eyes flashing.

"Nadir, you're being too harsh on the poor girl," Madame Giry interjected, but he silenced her by holding up one hand in a sharp movement.

"I'm being perfectly reasonable. Christine could have gotten herself killed, wandering around by herself late at night, I think from now on we must set reasonable restrictions on your movements!" he decided.

"Christine, what is he _saying_? Is this still about why you were late coming home?" Raoul questioned anxiously.

"He wants to control me, Raoul, that's all," she explained to the young man, before turning back to Nadir and switching languages. "You're not my father! I _know_ how to look after myself!" she objected angrily.

"Well clearly you don't. Either you pick up your behaviour, you move into the theatre dormitories, or you move in with me. But you're not going to pull another stunt like this, leaving us all in fear for almost four hours because you felt like a walk," he commanded sternly. Christine rose from her seat suddenly.

"This isn't about me coming back late, this is about _you_ thinking I should get over Erik!" she spat.

"I'll admit that's a part of it, but this is out of concern for your safety, Christine!"

"Well I don't care. I don't care! I'm not going to stop loving Erik and I'm not going to let you bully me into doing something I don't want to do!" she snapped.

"Erik? What does this have to do with Erik?" Raoul demanded immediately. Nadir gave an irritated huff.

"Someone must shut the boy up. I'm tired of his complaints," he practically growled.

"Is Nadir being rude about me again?"

"Good lord, I don't even speak his language and I can tell he's being dull already."

"Stupid foreigners, they assume they can just waltz in and take the run of things!"

"I've had _enough_ of men!" Christine snapped suddenly, glaring at the two. "You're both absolutely ridiculous. I'm going to bed, Madame Giry, I apologise for any concern. I just wanted some fresh air to clear my head, and Nadir, you're _not_ my father, you're not my brother or my husband and you're not Erik, so don't you _dare_ try to take his place in my life," she commanded angrily. Nadir scowled, but it was clear he was not finished. "And Raoul, I don't feel like going out for dinner tonight," she added finally, turning to her old friend.

Raoul's face fell. "You _never_ want to do anything with me anymore, Christine!" he scowled. She gave a weary sigh as she ran a hand through her dark hair.

"Come to the theatre tomorrow, you can walk me home because Nadir is so concerned about my safety," she drawled. Raoul instantly looked relieved, but she did not give him a chance to express his gratitude before she left the front parlour for her room, and closed the door behind her.

She crawled into her bed, still laden with the purchases of the day. She just wanted to sleep, she just wanted it to be morning so she could return to the theatre and feel Erik again.

**A/N: I'M EIGHTEEEEEEEEEEENNNNN!**

**Whoop whoop, I can get wasted. Not that I want to. But still, I can. **

**As a birthday present from me to my darling readers, I give you this chapter. Also, I would like to say a few things to my reviewers. I'm very grateful for your advice and critique, it's marvellous. However, I would just like you to keep in mind that this IS fiction, and also that I do actually know what I'm talking about when it comes to music. There will be some things that stretch the bounds of realistic practises, like Christine being given a lead role. It's not unheard of at her age, but it's very unlikely. In terms of the score for **_**Don Juan Triumphant**_**, I am combining the **_**Don Juan**_** score from the original theatre production of **_**The Phantom of the Opera**_** with some ballads from **_**Love Never Dies**_**. So if I talk about something specific like the time signature or a particular ostinato, it's not something I've invented, that's canon from the actual score. **

**This is not to discourage informative and critical reviews. But I'm just putting it out there. So, anyways, review, my lovelies, and I hope that all across the world everyone enjoys my birthday :D**


	22. The Angel of Music

The first week of rehearsals passed in both bliss and agony for Christine as she practised by herself in that room buried away in the wings where she could feel Erik's presence surrounding her, guiding her, instructing her. She was filled with such a sense of completeness when she was practising, but when she returned in the evenings and awoke in the mornings it made the emptiness worse each day. She had settled into a routine quite quickly, she and Nadir would meet at around lunchtime and have their usual conversation before he took her to the rehearsals, and in the evenings, Raoul would meet her and whisk her off to some fancy restaurant each night, where she ate little and spoke less, but he never seemed to notice her reserve.

She wondered if she had never seen how vapid and weak he was before Erik had taken her from Paris, or if his lack of personality had only developed when she returned. She detested his company; she couldn't help but blame him for killing Erik, but her thoughts were always too consumed with Erik and his music to take notice of Raoul's ramblings. He now fancied himself quite the artisan – after hearing her practise he immediately doubled the investment he already had in the theatre and became one of the opera's biggest patrons, much to the glee of the managers.

By the second week complications began to arise. La Carlotta, for one, was not happy to have been replaced, and made it her personal mission to cause as much slander and insult to the new soprano as possible, and it spread throughout the theatre like wildfire. Due to her personal practises, no one from the company except for Reyer, André and Firmin had heard her sing. She was to debut in only a few days with '_Think of Me_' to introduce her to the public before she was buried in rehearsals for _Don Juan Triumphant_. The cast were constantly whispering and staring as she walked past, she was never invited out for coffee or lunch with any of them, and people made a habit of peering suspiciously into her dressing room as they walked past her in the wings, as if to check that she wasn't sleeping with one of the managers to maintain her position at the theatre.

But Christine didn't care about all that. She was always too lost in her thoughts to even care. She could feel Erik all around her from the moment she stepped into the theatre to the moment she left, often much later than the others, citing her unfamiliarity with the opera as her reason for late rehearsals. But she had learnt it very quickly, partially because she recognised half of it, but mostly because she spent all her energy on it. She could see Erik's stamp on each measure and each note, and she was determined to be a credit to him.

"What happens when the opera is over?" Raoul had questioned, somewhat impatiently, at dinner one night. She shrugged and picked at her cordon bleu in silence. "You'll be a celebrity. A rich and famous woman," he commented. She shrugged once more.

"Maybe."

"Christine, I've heard you sing! You're absolutely amazing – I only hope you won't forget me when you're a star," he smiled teasingly.

"Raoul, I could never forget you," she assured him, to which he smirked. It was no lie; she never _would_ forget the man who had killed Erik.

"I think it would be best for all if we got married after you've finished the opera, Christine. Madame Giry and Nadir can't look after you all the time, and it's clear you need someone to support you," Raoul suggested suddenly. Christine looked up with an incredulous expression. "I know it must seem soon, but Christine, you're not _well_. If we married I could protect you always, and I know how painful those five months must have been for you, but I can help you forget them. I want to care for you, Christine," he said softly, placing his hand atop hers.

"No, Raoul. I won't marry you, _ever_," she snapped bitterly. Raoul gently closed his fingers over her hand, and gave her a comforting squeeze.

"I know you're still horrified about what I did. It was an accident, Christine, and it was self-defence," he insisted. "You must forget about it. You have much more to live for, now," he added firmly. Christine lowered her eyes and bit her tongue to prevent herself from speaking.

When the opera was over, she had every intention of letting the Seine wash the hurt away. Raoul had no idea that the opera was _all_ she was prepared to live for, now that Erik was gone.

"I want to go home, now," she replied, pulling her hand away and placing it in her lap.

Raoul looked disappointed, but that was nothing to the utter hatred swirling within her chest.

She confessed all this to Nadir, of course. And although Nadir did not approve, it wasn't for the same reasons she had expected.

"I don't think you should stay in Paris, but I think Raoul has the right idea. You need someone with you to look after you," he reasoned as they walked to rehearsals.

"But I don't love _him!_ I'd hate him if I had enough energy to after what he's done!" she objected angrily. Nadir sighed and dug his hands into his pockets.

"If you didn't put all of your energy into this opera you might be able to realise that he did what he did because he cared for you. If Erik _did_ love you, as you say he did, then he wouldn't think twice about killing someone to protect you, and you know it," he said pointedly.

"Erik would _never_ kill someone I loved. Raoul shot the _only_ person I loved," she snapped.

"Raoul didn't know the difference. If Erik had shot Raoul and said he was trying to protect you then you wouldn't even hesitate in forgiving him," Nadir objected.

"I thought Erik was your _friend!_" she retorted angrily. Nadir scoffed.

"It's a loose term when it comes to Erik. He's as much a friend to me as he was able to be, but by any other man's standards he might as well have been my arch nemesis," he drawled coolly.

"You're still waiting for me to get over Erik, aren't you," she threw back incredulously.

"And what made you think I'll ever stop?" he questioned coolly. She rolled her dark eyes.

"Well you'll be waiting for the rest of time itself, because I will _never_ 'get over him'," she spat.

Nadir stopped suddenly, and she almost ran into him on the crowded Parisian street.

"Don't you see yourself? Don't you see how you're wasting away? You never sleep, you never eat, all you do is cry, I thought things would get better now you had Erik's opera but clearly it's just some sort of temporary fix for you!" he cried angrily. "The only option I can see is to take you back to Iran with me. I can take care of you, Christine, and we can be happy together! But you'll kill yourself if you stay here any longer!" he continued, his voice sharp and disapproving.

"Don't you be so sanctimonious with _me_, Nadir Kahn! You throw tantrums almost as well as Erik did – you should spend less time criticising him and maybe you'll be able to realise that he _wasn't_ as evil as you seem to think he was!" she snapped, turning heel and storming off in the direction of the theatre alone.

She was glad Nadir did not follow her. She appreciated all he had done for her, but she _wasn't_ a child. He reminded her of a vulture, waiting around for her to be over Erik so he could swoop down and prop her up.

She had arrived at the theatre twenty minutes early, so went to her usual practise room to warm up. She sat down, full of anger, and began to play the piano. Her anger was transformed into the music, it seemed to flow from her fingers and then surround her.

"Stupid Nadir," she muttered to herself, silencing her playing with a discordant jamming of keys.

'_You don't need him..._' that familiar, gentle voice in the back of her head seemed to say. She shuddered with its familiar presence.

"He thinks he can order me around. Why do all the men in my life seem to think they own me? First it was Papa, then my cousin, then Raoul, then Erik, and now Nadir. I'm not a possession!" she snapped.

'_But Erik DID own you_...'

"Well Nadir certainly doesn't, and neither does Raoul! To think I'd marry him after what he did," she muttered bitterly, leaning her head against the edge of the piano.

'_Don't you have an opera to rehearse?_' the voice whispered. She laughed at her own silliness – she was being so dramatic that her own subconscious had to remind her why she came early!

She pulled her copy of the script from her ballet bag and set it on the music stand before beginning with some warm-up scales. She needed to push all thoughts of Nadir and Raoul from her mind. It was time for music.

* * *

Christine sunk down into the bath with a comforted sigh, bubbles covering her body with thick white foam. She was exhausted from the day's rehearsals – practising with the rest of the dancers was harder than she had originally thought. She would need to come to the theatre another hour or two early every day to restore those muscles she had long forgotten in the company gym. She was still flexible enough, but she had no muscles and no fat to turn into muscle. She could do the moves well enough, and she still had the grace and flow of a ballerina, but she lacked the strength, the endurance and the precision. She needed to work harder on top of her singing.

It had been a _very_ tiring day, what with her argument with Nadir and another dreary dinner with Raoul. She just wanted to crawl into her bed and let the night claim her strained body and mind. It had reached a point where her whole existence was devoted to nothing but the theatre. In a mere twenty-four hours she would debut on the closing night of _Il Muto_ with 'Think of Me', and from then there were galas and balls and charity evening she would be expected to attend to build up a hype for the new opera. Raoul had already eagerly pointed out mentions of her as the 'mysterious new soprano' in the evening papers.

She sat up suddenly with suspicion when she heard a noise outside the apartment. She peered into the darkness outside the window with a frown, but she could see nothing but blackness. She shook her head, as if to be rid of her own silliness.

"Now you're hearing things move as well as voices, Christine," she muttered to herself.

'_Ignore them. Relax. Rest. You've deserved it_,' the familiar voice in the back of her mind whispered. Christine was only mildly surprised, it was not the first time she had heard its familiar tones in Madame Giry's apartment. Once she had even imagined that voice gently singing her to sleep. She did as her subconscious commanded her and sunk deeper in the bath with a soft sigh, arching her back slightly to stretch the strain the day's practices had put her under. She hummed softly with a grin. It was a game she loved to play in the theatre, but she hadn't tested it in the apartment.

As if on cue she heard that voice harmonise to that same melody and join her voice. It was a melody her father had written on his violin that her mother used to sing her when she was small. She used to tell her stories about an 'Angel of Music' who would guide and instruct her through her life.

She stopped humming suddenly.

"Angel of... Angel of Music?" she frowned, sitting up.

She had never thought that perhaps the voice she heard _wasn't_ her subconscious, but rather...

After all, she did believe in angels. They were all around her – as a young child she could spy them out of the corner of her eye and feel them kiss her brow when she was ill. When her mother had died she'd felt a weight on her left shoulder for months, and another on her right when her father passed away. Erik had gone, but was this the angel her mother had promised her? She'd felt her entire body being pulled down the moment Erik's form fell prostrate to the floor, so could it be that...

'_I am your angel of music... come to me angel of music..._'

"Oh god. It's true," she murmured, her eyes widening.

'_I am your angel of music, come to me, angel of music..._'

"All this time I thought it was just me!" she whispered, shivering against the cool night air that was coming from the window. She frowned – she could swear that was closed before.

'_Wandering child, so lost, so lonely..._'

That voice sung the melody of the song she had been humming, but the words were different. She quickly climbed out of the bath and wrapped a towel around her frame.

"I'm not afraid of you," she trembled.

'_You have no reason to be._'

"Why can't I see you?"

'_Did you honestly expect to?'_

She shivered and wrapped the towel around her body tighter. In a moment she had pulled the plug from the bottom of the bath and scampered to her bedroom in haste. She sat on her bed, still damp, still wrapped in the towel, the lights turned off.

"_Father once spoke of an angel,_

_I used to dream he'd appear,_

_Now as I sing I can sense him, _

_And I know he's here_..." she sang quietly, the lyrics coming to her as if they had been written by her own hand years ago. She strained to recall the words her mother had taught her when they used to pretend they could coax her angel of music from his hiding place.

"_Angel of music, guide and guardian,_

_Grant to me your glory,_

_Angel of music, hide no longer,_

_Secret and strange angel!_"

She shivered when she heard the soft humming behind her words, harmonising, accompanying. And then a grin slipped onto her lips. An angel of music. She had an angel of music to help her overcome Erik's loss, to help her sing his opera, to guide and protect her.

"Christine? Are you alright? I heard you singing?" questioned a sleepy looking Meg, poking her head into Christine's room. "Are you going to sleep like that? You'll catch your death!" she exclaimed in surprise, stepping into the room.

"I was just singing to myself," she shrugged, pulling the towel around her tighter. Meg rolled her eyes.

"Merde, Christine, you're very odd," she commented with a laugh, tossing her friend a pair of pyjamas. "You were just awful today, you know!" she giggled, sitting down on the bed. Christine rolled her dark eyes and picked up the pyjamas, moving to the screen in the corner of the room to change.

"I know, but I haven't practised dancing in about nine or ten months, you know," she reminded her.

"We'll go to rehearsals earlier and do some practise with Mère. Nadir can come earlier if you still need him to hold your hand all the time," she teased.

"Nadir has been very good to me. But sometimes he seems to think he's my father, or my husband," she muttered. She began to hum as she changed, but to no avail – her angel was silent with Meg in the room.

"So what is that song? Is it some sort of lullaby?" Meg questioned curiously, lounging back on the bed. Christine shivered suddenly when she felt something against her bare back. For a moment it felt almost like... a hand had slid across her skin. She turned quickly, but there was nothing there. She shuddered, but knew it was probably just her hair brushing against her back. "Christine? The lullaby?" Meg repeated, when she heard no response.

"Oh, no. My father wrote a melody on the violin before I was born, and my mother and I used to make up words for it. She had this story she used to tell me, about an Angel of Music who would someday come visit and protect me," she explained, stepping out from behind the screen.

"That's so sweet! Mère never sang me songs like that. My Dad hates music, too, so when I go stay with him in Lyon I can't even dance," she laughed. Christine sat herself down on her bed.

"Sometimes we would sit in the garden and try to make the Angel of Music come to us. He never did, of course, but... I don't know, when they died I think I felt something, and now... Meg, I know I must sound mad, but I feel almost as if I can hear him," she explained. Meg raised a brow.

"Him?"

"It's a man. I'm certain of that."

Meg giggled. "That's not _so_ crazy. I used to think I had a guardian angel when I was small. So what makes you think he's here?" she questioned. Christine shrugged.

"Well, I just... _feel_ him around me, and when I'm alone and I sing or I hum I can hear him harmonise with me. At first I thought it was just me, but now I'm certain. And it sounds so strange but – God, Meg, he's all around me. This is the first thing that's truly helped since Erik died," she explained with a soft sigh.

"I used to think I was in love with Erik too, you know. When I was smaller, Mère would speak to him and I'd hide behind her skirts, but I always tried to dance in front of him so he'd notice me," Meg sighed. Christine looked over in surprise.

"You knew Erik?" she exclaimed. Meg nodded with a dreamy smile.

"Yes, back when he lived in the theatre. Didn't you know? Mère was the only person he wouldn't mind talking to. She used to try to convince him to give me singing lessons, but... well, I suppose I'm just not as good as you," she replied, with a slightly bitter smile.

"I didn't know you sang!"

"Oh, yes. I really love singing, but Mère thinks I should focus more on my dancing. Anyway, Erik never cared much for dance," she shrugged. "I've been a ballet rat since I was only a little girl, so I pretty much grew up with Erik. But Mère thinks he bewitched you. She told me about what happened to warn me from getting a boyfriend," she giggled. Christine rolled her eyes.

"Let me guess, she said he spent months weaving a web of lies over me and then forced me to sleep with him?" she challenged. Meg nodded.

"That's pretty much it, but I can't see Erik doing that. So is it true?" she questioned curiously. Christine shook her head.

"No. Erik brought me to his home to sing for him. He promised my father he would look after me one day, and as wonderful as he was, he wasn't very good at minding social conventions. He thought kidnapping me was the easiest way. It took two and a half months, but we were finally able to admit that we had feelings for each other," she explained. Meg nodded, eager to hear more. "At first we argued a lot, he was just as stubborn as I am but he intimidated me so much. He was a musical genius, Meg, and it was an honour for him to teach me. But I think we both wanted more from the moment I came to that place," she added with a slight blush.

"So he didn't rape you?"

Christine shook her head. "No, of course not. For the first two months he was impatient, you know," she began, her cheeks flushing bright red as Meg started to giggle. "He didn't bother hiding it. I was frightened but I still loved the way he would say suggestive little things _de_ _temps en temps_, but he never tried to push me. When he found out that someone was looking for us we packed up immediately and were going to Austria – I went to his room that night and... well..." she trailed off. Meg laughed, her eyes gleaming.

"I know what you mean. Mère doesn't know, but... well, I'm not as innocent as she would think," she explained with a slight smirk. "Was it wonderful?" she questioned eagerly. Christine blushed and nodded.

"Yes, absolutely. I don't know why I was so frightened, Erik was..." she sighed. "_So_ wonderful. He was so considerate, and I just felt... _alive_. I only wished I had gotten over my anxieties earlier," she murmured bitterly.

"Do you miss him?" Meg questioned. Christine gave a tiny smile and nodded.

"Yes. Very much. Too much. But I want to sing his opera – I want to make him proud before..." she trailed off. Meg frowned.

"You're not thinking of –"

"I'm a bit tired, Meg. Do you think we could discuss this in the morning?" Christine questioned, interrupting her. She didn't want to answer Meg's question.

"Well, alright. But we'll talk about this in rehearsals tomorrow, alright? Oh, and we should go early so we can go to the gym together. And you should speak to Mère, she _is_ a doctor, you know, she'd be able to tell you what you need to eat to get enough muscle to dance again," she babbled, standing up. "Bon nuit, Christine. Sleep well," she said finally, before leaving the room.

Christine sighed as she fell back against the pillows.

'_He would be proud of you. You know he would_.'

"We'll see," was the last thing she whispered before leaning over, turning off the light and slipping beneath the covers of her bed, her eyes fluttering to a close almost immediately.

It wasn't until her breathing had slowed and she was deep in slumber that a shape slipped out of the shadows and moved to sit carefully on the edge of the bed, watching.

Always watching.

**A/N: Sorry this is late, and thank you for all your lovely birthday messages! Sorry it takes me so long to respond to PMs, too, I've been rather busy with uni – but I'll get there, eventually! :D**


	23. The Nightmares

"You seem to have more energy," Nadir commented to his companion as they met for breakfast. Ever since she had started going to the theatre earlier to improve her body strength and practise her dancing they had moved their routine up a few hours and now met before she left for the theatre. "Still having nightmares?" he questioned as she sipped her tea.

"Yes, but they're not so bad now. I'm only waking up once or twice a night," she shrugged.

"Well, that's good, at least. And how are things going at the theatre?" he questioned. She nodded.

"Good. I'm catching up to the other dancers, but I haven't sung since last week. After the performance they needed to focus on the chorus, so I'm starting to rehearse with Piangi for the duets," she explained.

"The papers are still buzzing about your debut, you know," he commented with a teasing smile. She rolled her dark eyes, but she knew it had been a success, and to be able to sing Erik's song... it was the more wonderful than she could ever imagine.

She'd been filled with a huge rush when she stepped off the stage to the cheers, gasps and cries of the audience. But none of it mattered, because she had felt her angel the whole time. She hurried through the wings to her dressing room and closed the door behind her, breathing deeply and sliding to the floor.

'_Bravo, brava, bravissima...'_

She sat up attentively when that voice echoed around her.

"Angel?" she questioned, but before the voice could answer, the door was pulled open, and Raoul stepped in, his face lit up eagerly.

"Christine! You were so amazing!" he cried, pulling her into a tight embrace. She winced.

"Thank you, Raoul," she muttered.

"We must celebrate! The whole city will be talking about you tomorrow morning, we need champagne! Food! Come, I'm taking you to supper," he decided, pulling at her hand. She pulled back.

"Raoul, I'm not going," she objected. He glanced to her in surprise.

"Oh, of course. You must change," he realised, taking in the elaborate white ball gown she wore.

"No, Raoul, I don't want –"

"I'll let you change. Ten minutes, Christine," he smiled, pressing a short kiss to her cheek and leaving her alone in the room. Christine glared after him and wiped her cheek in disgust.

"Order _me_ around, why don't you?" she muttered bitterly.

'_You must be firm with the boy. He doesn't appreciate your gift_,' the angel's voice called to her softly. She sighed. After hearing her angel speak to her several times over the past few days she was no longer frightened or suspicious when she heard his voice, she was comforted.

"I hate him. Actually, I think so badly and so little of him that it would be a waste of my energy to despite someone like him – I just wish he would be struck down so I didn't have to breathe the same disgusting air as him," she spat, sitting herself down on the elegant chaise before her makeup mirrors.

'_Bravo, child. That is both better and worse that hatred_,' the voice whispered.

"He's spoilt tonight for me now. I was almost –" she sighed. "Not happy, but... well, content. Singing for you almost makes the agony bearable," she informed her angel.

'_You sung very well. I am proud of you. You will sing this opera beautifully'_

Christine gave a small, weak smile.

"But is it worth it?" she questioned quietly.

'_Music takes place above all else_.'

"Not Erik. Music isn't as important as Erik," she frowned.

'_The music IS Erik, Christine. You must accept that they cannot be separated, and you cannot have both in separate forms at once.'_

Christine sat up in sudden anger.

"You're wrong. I had music and Erik at the same time – and I would rather have _Erik_ than music, no matter what!" she cried angrily, standing up and storming to the other end of the room. She threw down a bouquet of roses most likely sent by Raoul and immediately began tugging at her constricting gown.

'_You must not lose focus, child. Music is all. Erik believed this, as you must also believe_,' she voice returned gently. She scoffed as she slid out of the dress and it pooled around her feet.

"I won't lose focus – I'll sing and I'll sing it as well as I can for Erik's sake, but I won't stop loving what little I have left of him," she insisted, pulling her jeans, blouse and coat from her ballet bag. She didn't care that she stood wearing nothing but her underthings while her angel was still with her – he was just an angel, she did not need to be modest before an omniscient presence. She pulled her change of clothes on with frustration.

She stopped her hurried movements by the time she had slipped into her jeans and sat down on the chaise with a sigh, running her hands through her dark hair.

'_You are ill, child. You must take care of yourself to sing to your best ability_,' the voice said sternly. She shook her head.

"No, it's just – I was hoping tonight would help the pain, at least a little. It only makes me want Erik more," she muttered quietly.

'_In time, child, you will come to see that music is all you need, and Erik will simply fade away from your memory._'

"No, he never will," she returned, finishing dressing with a petulant huff. She bent down to pick up her dress, before her fingers stopped over one of the roses she had knocked over. It was different to the others, with a dark red bloom to it. It was just like those she had found in Erik's garden. She breathed in the scent and let its softness brush her skin gently, her fingers sliding over the black satin ribbon wound around the stem.

'_Just a small token of my appreciation for the performance you gave tonight, angel. You mustn't allow yourself to get upset,_' the angel whispered. She sighed.

"I'm sorry. It just hurts me to think... thank you, angel," she muttered, rising to her feet just as Raoul arrived to take her to dinner. She placed the rose down on the table and sent one last longing look back into her dressing room, before leaving without another word to her angel.

"You must be very pleased with yourself," Nadir commented, snapping her back to reality. She blinked her musings away.

"Well, it was alright – but I'd rather work on _Don Juan Triumphant_," she admitted. Nadir chuckled at her indifference.

"I suppose that's the attitude that's going to turn you into a star," he smiled. She shrugged.

"I don't want to be a star. I just want to sing Erik's opera," she replied simply, and with that the conversation was closed. Christine didn't care – now that she had her angel she didn't feel the need to depend on Nadir so much, and she had not, of course, told him about the mysterious voice that came to her in the dark.

But then again, in a strange way, she did miss speaking to Nadir... and she had admitted her suspicions about her angel to Meg, so perhaps she _should_ tell him about that voice. She thought about it for hours through the rehearsal with Piangi, as she sang passionate duets with him that echoed her feelings for Erik. Her two favourites had fast become 'Beneath a Moonless Sky' and 'Point of No Return' – those lyrics were so sensual and ardent, she only wished she could sing them with someone other than Piangi.

It wasn't that she suspected her angel. It was merely that she couldn't believe it herself at times that she had an _angel_ who looked over her, who spoke to her, who sometimes, in the dark of the night, she could feel brush locks of hair from her face. She felt guilty for shutting Nadir out of what had become such an important part of her life of late, but it was something very personal for her, and she was frightened he would think she was mad. She honestly would not have told him if it wasn't for _that dream_.

Her night had begun just like it usually did; a hot bath to ease away the strains of the day before she went to bed. She woke up violently in the middle of the night after she was seized by another horrific nightmare, but she soon fell back into the bed with a small whimper. It was then she felt it, in that mysterious place between the consciousnesses, the touch she had been craving for so long. Soft, gentle lips on her brow, soothing her, caressing her; calming her, and a decidedly firm hand smoothing back the sheets to cover her body once more.

"It's alright, angel. Go back to sleep, I'm here. I'm always here," the voice whispered. She couldn't tell if it was her angel or if it were Erik – and she was so tired... too tired to respond with anything but a whimper.

"E... Erik..." she mumbled pitifully, turning into the warm, comforting embrace that was provided.

"I'm here. I'm here, my sweet Christine," was the last murmur she heard before she slipped back into slumber, and did not wake once more that night.

She didn't remember what had happened that morning. It wasn't until she was ordering breakfast with Nadir at a small café near the apartment that she finally recalled what had happened.

"Are you alright?" Nadir questioned, noticing her sudden change of expression. She lowered the menu as the garçon slipped away to the kitchens.

"I just remembered the dream I had last night," she muttered quietly. He raised a brow.

"Another nightmare?"

"It was at first. But – but this time it was different," she began thoughtfully. "Nadir, I haven't been completely honest with you. There's something I – I haven't told you about," she said suddenly, turning to him with guilty eyes. He frowned slightly.

"Whatever is it, Christine?"

"When we went to the theatre the first time I didn't really notice it, but when we came back I could feel it all around me – and it's been getting stronger each day," she confessed quietly.

"What do you mean?" he demanded anxiously, a glimmer of fear flashing in his dark eyes. Christine bit her lip nervously.

"At first I just... felt it. It was like some sort of presence, but sometimes it seemed as if I were having conversations with whatever it was. I would say something aloud and this voice in the back of my mind would respond," she began. Nadir nodded tersely. "And when I hummed it harmonised with me. It wasn't until I started humming a lullaby my mother used to sing and I heard it harmonise, and he sung words and... Mère and Père used to tell me about how I would find an 'Angel of Music' one day, and I think – I don't know," she muttered, leaning her elbow on the table and running a hand through her dark hair.

"What's happened, Christine?" Nadir questioned, his voice strangely calm, but hinted with fear.

"Every now and then it's almost as if I can feel it. Him. Whoever it is. When I'm half-asleep or after a nightmare I can feel him soothe me, pushing my hair away, but last night –" she stopped, and blushed. "I probably sound _zinzin_," she mumbled. Nadir shook his head.

"No, please, go on. I want to know," he demanded. She took a deep breath.

"Last night I woke, and he was there. Erik. I could swear he was. Or maybe my angel – I'm not sure, but I could definitely feel him, whoever he was. He kissed me and held me and spoke to me, he told me 'I'm here, I'm always here', and I fell asleep," she explained quietly. Nadir nodded slowly. "Do you think I'm mad?" she questioned anxiously.

"No, of course not. You're just tired and you're wearing yourself thin. It was a dream, Christine. I know it must have felt real but it was just a dream," he assured her firmly.

"And what about my angel? I'm not mad, Nadir, I know what I've heard. I know what I've felt," she insisted. Nadir frowned.

"There are some things I don't have an answer for. It's possible you do have some sort of guardian angel, I don't believe in God or Allah or prophets, but that's just me, Christine. But it's not Erik, Erik is gone, and you know this," he said quietly, placing his hand atop hers to emphasise his words. She nodded, and lowered her eyes.

"I _know_, but... well, I suppose I just wanted what I couldn't have," she muttered with a slight blush. Nadir gave her a soft smile.

"That's alright. You're still healing, Christine," he replied. She returned his smile with a grimace and nodded.

After their breakfast Nadir walked with her to the theatre and went to speak with the managers as she headed upstairs to the company gym.

"He's back. I don't know how he's done it but he's back."

André and Firmin turned with pale faces when they heard those fatal words from the doorway of their combined office.

"Are you sure?"

"He's been coming to Christine at night – she doesn't know the truth, but I think it's just as we've feared, messieurs," Nadir continued. Firmin collapsed in his chair and André wiped his cold brow.

"Dear lord. I was praying it might have just been a copycat," he muttered bitterly.

"What should we do? We can't have him terrorise the theatre like he did all those years ago!" Firmin exclaimed nervously.

"I'm going to speak with him," Nadir decided calmly. André and Firmin turned with doubtful expressions.

"You'll die."

"I don't think I will, but I'm willing to take the risk. I know his home better than anyone here, save _him_; of course, I stand a chance of making it through. And if I'm not back then take Christine, get her as far away as possible and don't let her be found," he instructed. The two men nodded, and he left without another word.

He passed through the wings in steely silence. The theatre was quiet and abandoned so early in the morning, which made his trip easier. He had no desire to have to explain what he was doing to any passing stranger.

It had been so long since he'd come to Erik's domain that he almost missed the only entrance he remembered. He ducked down to slip into the gap between one of the supporting foundations behind the stage and the wall, to find himself sliding down a wooden beam till he landed on his feet. He brushed down his clothes and squinted, the only light coming from gaps in the ventilation that guided his path. And so he began to walk down into the depths of the theatre, keeping his hand on the right wall and searching for Erik's less-than-friendly traps. He had no interest in anyone entering his domain, and he had always been quite insistent on keeping people away.

Nadir gave a sigh of relief when he spied the tunnel. On first glance it looked like the only way to cross was by some sort of boat, but he knew that the black stone beneath the water was just a trick of the light made to make the water look as deep as a canyon. In reality he could slip off his shoes and walk across with the water only dancing around his ankles.

But he didn't need to. Because he knew his friend's game, and Erik wasn't across that 'lake', not with Christine in the building. He was probably watching her in the gym – which meant all Nadir had to too was walk around the edges of the water to a small, almost hidden stone staircase that lead up through the walls of the theatre.

"You've gotten slow, you know," came a chilling voice from behind.

Nadir turned sharply. Erik was a good ten feet away from him, leaning against a wooden beam, dressed in his customary black, his white mask gleaming in the dim light. Nadir instinctively stepped back.

"How the hell did you survive?" he demanded instantly. Erik shrugged.

"I probably would have died if my housekeeper wasn't quick on her feet. It took me a little while to recover, but I think I'm back to my old self again," he answered simply.

Nadir almost shuddered – he was afraid, there was no denying it, not when Erik's eyes were full of such fire. Back to his old self? No, there was more fire and rage and pain than there had ever been before. Suddenly Erik's gaze was averted with the sound of voices just beyond the wall he was leaning against. He shifted to look through the ventilation shaft at the room behind it. Nadir glanced through the one nearest to him – Christine stood in an almost empty rehearsal room, doing plies at the bar while another ballet girl chatted to her. It was as if Erik had completely forgotten Nadir's presence as he watched the girl.

"So you're behind all this? This 'angel of music' nonsense?" Nadir questioned, somewhat perturbed with his friend's silence. Erik glanced back to him with a scowl that seemed to say 'you're still here'?

"Of course I am, Daroga. It's an exhausting little game, I almost forgot to kill you, I was so busy with it," he retorted. Nadir swallowed.

"I didn't know she loved you. I didn't know the pain it would cause her – and you've never given me a reason to make me think what we thought you did to her wasn't possible," he objected. Erik glared at him pointedly.

"It was none of your business. I know you've been good to Christine, so I've been thinking about letting you live. I'm not sure yet, so don't test me," he snapped, turning his gaze back to the ballet room.

"You came to her last night?"

Erik nodded. "She was having another nightmare. Most nights she doesn't even realise I'm there, but this one was worse than usual," he shrugged.

"She's very sick, you know. I'm worried for her," Nadir commented. Erik gave another nod.

"I know. I don't like seeing her so thin and pale, but I can't exactly leap out and offer her a meal, Daroga," he retorted coolly.

"Why haven't you revealed yourself yet?" Nadir demanded.

"That's none of your business, _friend_. She likes chocolate and strawberries – give her plenty. It may help her gain some weight," he commanded, sounding rather distracted.

"She says you told her that you love her."

Erik did not flinch or move, his eyes were fixed on Christine.

"I told her you weren't capable of love, and I believe I'm still correct. This looks like obsession to me," he continued, despite Erik's silence. "So? Do you love her?"

"Daroga, from the first moment she came to my home everything I did, said and thought was for her alone. She's the closest thing to perfection that has ever graced this disgusting world and I'm quite certain that my three decades or so in this life, and any other lives I might have lived, have served no single purpose but as a lead up to life with Christine in it," he informed him pointedly. "So if you feel the need to ask me that question then I truly pity you. 'Love' is an overused and meaningless word, and words don't even come close for what I feel for Christine," he finished, almost as if bored, but there was a passion hinted in his voice that sent trembles down Nadir's spine.

"Well, Erik. Should I expect wedding bells any time soon?" he drawled. Erik scoffed.

"Marriage is a ridiculous institution. Speaking of which – give the girl back her damned ring, I didn't knife that gypsy and beat up countless petty thieves to have you take the one possession I've had my whole life," he snapped.

"I did it to help her move on."

"Well it's not helping. So give it back to her," he growled. Nadir sighed, and nodded.

"Erik, please. Are you going to hurt her? Hurt me or Raoul or Madame Giry? Why are you here?" he questioned wearily.

"Never, yes, yes, yes and none of your damned business."

"Well are you going to be revealing yourself any time soon?" Nadir demanded.

"Once again, none of your damned business. Now get out of my sight, Daroga, and if you dare tell Christine about what you've seen, you won't have eyes to see anything else again," he snapped.

Nadir didn't complain or object, he left as soon as he could. He didn't trust Erik not to come at him from behind – all he wanted to do was take the girl and leave.

"Monsieur Kahn? Is he there? Did you find him?" Firmin questioned anxiously, meeting him in the wings.

"Yes, he's there. I don't know what he's planning and I don't know if he's going to kill anyone, but we mustn't go after him. Christine is the only thing that's stopped him from killing us all in our beds," Nadir replied coolly, pushing past him. He stormed out of the theatre before they had a chance to question him anymore, his breath coming quick and his heart racing.

He was marked.

**A/N: If anyone is even slightly surprised, then you have probably missed a few chapters. Or I haven't been obvious enough. But I'm usually pretty obvious. So, Erik is alive! Yay! Some people might be curious about the way I'm writing certain characters. Nadir is a good guy in my story. He's there to help Christine; and he's the closest thing to a friend Erik ever had, but that's not saying much. **

**And as for Raoul. I'm not one of those strange people who get so offended about Raoul bashing. I don't **_**like**_ **Raoul. I won't turn him into a character of pure evil, though. I'm writing him as a confused young man who is very used to having his own way, who tends to block out whatever he doesn't like; which is why Christine isn't bothering to outwardly hate him, because he would only ignore that. Primarily I'm making him weak, because I think that in no matter which production or version of the Phantom of the Opera, he is weak. **

**So, characterisation aside, please review!**

**-Evie**


	24. The Fantasy

_Two months ago_

It was dark.

It was... more than dark, it was more than the absence of light, it was almost as if... there was light owed to the impenetrable darkness that surrounded him. All he knew was real was the searing, burning pain in his chest. Nothing else was certain, he could be sure of nothing else but the pain.

"Master?"

He heard a voice, but it wasn't the voice he wanted.

"Christine," he murmured, coughing but instantly wishing he had not when his chest seared with pain once more.

"Master, can you hear me?"

"Christine. Get me Christine," he demanded, his eyes still clenched tight. Oh, how he longed to feel her soft hands smooth back his brow and kiss away his pain, he wanted to hear her voice, he wanted her to sing and bring light to that unending darkness.

"Master, she's gone. Christine is gone."

What? It simply couldn't be! Christine couldn't be gone, Christine was there, she was _always_ there, she was eternal and everlasting and she simply couldn't have gone, not when he needed her!

"No."

"Master, they took her. They took the mistress – the doctor says you're going to be alright, but she's gone," he heard a familiar voice inform him, shaking with emotion.

"She can't be gone. Bring her to me. Check every room – bring her to me, _now_," he demanded, his voice little more than a low growl.

"Master, please, the mistress is gone!" another voice insisted. It sounded as if the voice had been crying recently.

"Daroga... Giry... that boy!" he groaned, slowly opening his eyes and wincing as the sunlight tore through his room, burning everything in his vision. He attempted to sit up but fell back with a cry. "We must go find her! Get my car ready – I'll get them before they leave the village," he decided, coughing once more.

"They're long gone, Master. They're probably out of France by now; they've been gone for hours!" Madame Sorelli cried pitifully. He looked around the room – he lay in his own bed, but there was no Christine in it. There was a bowl and a bloodied rag on the bedside table but nothing else to indicate any struggle.

"I have to find her!" he growled fiercely, trying to pull himself to a sitting position once more.

"Master, you've just been _shot_! The doctor removed the bullet and dressed the wound but you have to rest! You could have died!" Sorelli insisted, pushing him back into the bed.

"I have to get Christine back. I _must_ get her back," he hissed.

"Please, Aunt, can't we go after her?" Jammes begged tearfully, tugging on her Aunt's sleave.

"_No_, Jammes, we don't know where they've taken her and the master needs us now! We can find her when you're recovered, master," she assured him.

"No. I need her now," Erik insisted, making another attempt to sit up, only to let out a roar of pain and fall back.

"_Master_! You must sit still or you'll pull your stitches!" Madame Sorelli snapped, pushing him back into bed once more.

"I think it's a little too late for that warning, Madame," he hissed, looking at the hand he'd just pressed against his chest. It was covered in blood.

"Oh lord – Jammes, go fetch the doctor, he should still be downstairs. Master, sit still, you're going to be fine," Sorelli commanded. Erik groaned in pain.

"I – _need_ – Christine."

"I know, master. But we'll find her, do you know where they could have gone?" she questioned gently. He nodded.

"P – Paris. They've gone to Paris; they're too stupid that way. I'll get her back. I'll get her back somehow," he hissed as the woman soaked up the blood pouring from his chest at an alarming rate. He didn't even have to wait for the doctor and a sedative before he slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

Erik winced slightly with the memory as he pressed his hand to the scar on his chest as he moved through the theatre. Christine was now going to her usual practise room to warm up before she would join the others for her rehearsal. His eyes were trained on her through each ventilator shaft he passed as he followed her in the walls of the theatre.

He was not surprised to find the Daroga running around in search of him – he'd only expected it sooner. In those long hours where he could do nothing more than lie in his bed and long for Christine, he had contemplated killing him. After all, it was the ultimate betrayal, but he was too fond of the man to hurt him.

But where he was fond of Nadir Kahn, he _lived_ for Christine.

He smirked when his precious Christine found the sheet music he had left for her. He'd composed it only recently, but by making an old photocopy and yellowing it slightly it looked about ten years old. She looked at it curiously as she sat herself down by the piano, and began to experiment with the notes and lyrics.

"_In sleep he sang to me,_

_In dreams he came..."_

He smiled as he slipped out from one of the many false walls to sit himself behind the silk dressing screen.

'_Do you like it?_' he questioned, throwing his voice so it sounded just behind her head, echoing, whispering. She shuddered.

"This is Erik's music," she said aloud. He smirked.

'_Perhaps. Shouldn't you be warming up?_' he retorted, to throw her off the thought. Her hands stilled over the keys.

"Did you hold me last night? When I was dreaming?" she questioned suddenly.

Erik thought for half a second before responding.

'_I'm always holding you. But at night, when dreams and reality are one, then you can feel me, Christine_,' he whispered in return. She shivered slightly and bit her lip in that way that always drove him mad.

"I want to feel you all the time. I want you to be here, beside me, always," she murmured petulantly. Erik smiled.

'_Your music, child. You must prepare your voice for today's rehearsals,_' he replied gently. She gave a small smile and rolled her eyes before pulling out one of the ballads and beginning to play the accompaniment, singing along gently.

Erik closed his eyes and let the music wash over him as she played and sang his words. It filled him with a sense of achievement and pleasure, to hear her sing his music.

He sat up suddenly when he heard a variation. A change. Whereas his music had eased off with a decrescendo as the two lovers contemplated their one passionate night together, she continued to play, softly at first, and then she burst suddenly into a dramatic, romantic crescendo that he'd simply not thought of.

'_What is that?_' he questioned her. She stopped playing, suddenly, and looked up, as if in a trance.

"I don't know. I just heard it in my head," she defended, as if in shame.

'_Sing, angel. Sing what you've written,_' he demanded, his blood racing as she began to play from the beginning, skipping over Piangi's words and singing hers passionately.

He frowned slightly when she reached where she approached the end of his music and the beginning of hers, and she sang Piangi's words for that phrase.

"_And when it was done, before the sun could rise,  
__  
Ashamed of what I was, afraid to see your eyes_

I stood while you slept, and whispered a goodbye

And slipped into the dark, beneath a moonless sky," she sung those familiar words passionately in an octave lower than her usual notes, and then suddenly broke out into what could only be her part.

"_And I loved you! Yes I loved you!_

_I'd have followed, anywhere you led_

_I woke to swear my love,_

_And found you gone instead!_"

Before Erik knew what he was doing, he was singing, continued those words as she played.

'_And I loved you!_"

"_I loved you..._"

'_And I left you_!"

"_How I loved you..._"

'_And I had to, both of us knew why..._'

"_We both knew why!_"

'_And still yet I won't regret, from now until I die! The night I can't forget!_'

"_Beneath a moonless sky..._"

Her playing faded as her fingers fell from the keys and she bent her head in a fit of weeping.

'_Child, that was beautiful,_' he whispered to her softly.

"He – he never believed that I loved him and now – now he's gone!" she cried angrily. Erik felt a flash of guilt run through him. "I can see it all over his damned opera! Aminta betrays Don Juan, she gives herself to him and then betrays him – and that was all Erik knew!" she continued, slamming her hand against the keys angrily.

'_Not everyone is as pure as you, angel_,' he reminded her.

"I don't care. If Aminta loves Don Juan, and she _must_, then she would sing this song. She wouldn't hurt him," she insisted passionately.

'_Your words were beautiful, because YOU are beautiful. Not everyone is beautiful inside, Christine_.'

"Well some people are! He doesn't create characters that are and he _should_!" she snapped.

'_Calm yourself. Breathe. You mustn't upset yourself. Just sing, Christine,_' he commanded gently. She sniffled and took a deep breath, running her scales to warm up her singing voice.

Erik waited in silence, occasionally correcting her pitch, breathing and projection with a few gentle words, all the while running her words through his head. He had to write them – he had to have her sing that ending. But then he would have to change the whole opera!

But it would be alright. He'd not yet given the managers the final pages, he could write a reprise – she would sing those words again. And he would sing them with her.

He stole off as she went to a café for lunch before the rehearsals began, and rushed instantly to his quarters. No one had before been down that far but him; he kept an apartment in the next _arrondissement_ for when he came to Paris, and for when, while he was still living at the theatre all those years ago, he desired feminine company to visit him. Only the Daroga had come close, and he'd seen only the ridiculous little isle against a deep stone wall of the theatre and surrounded by water, but he only went there to compose. He did not sleep in the elaborate bed with its endless curtains of red and black silk; he kept it to draw suspicion away from a false wall that had taken months to install. It concealed a small apartment with little more than a bedroom, a bathroom and a tiny kitchen with a chair or two he had stolen years before. It didn't have the beauty he preferred to surround himself in, but it was enough.

He was so lost in composing the reprise and her new ending that he didn't even notice how the time passed. He glanced at the clock only to realise that he'd been in there for two or three hours making changes to his opera, and jumped up immediately. Christine was probably with Piangi and did not notice is absence, as he never spoke around anyone but her, but still – he needed to keep an eye on his angel.

The music would wait. Christine would not.

* * *

"We could go away, you know," Nadir said suddenly over breakfast the next day. Christine looked up from her tea and croissant in surprise.

"What?"

"I could take you back to Iran, you could forget everything that ever happened in France," he suggested with a slight shrug. Christine shook her head.

"No. I have to sing Erik's opera," she replied, as if it were as obvious as the colour of the sky to her.

"But it's not making you happy. If anything it's making you worse," he pointed out. She shrugged.

"I don't care. I have to stay, I want to do this," she insisted firmly. Nadir sighed, and then nodded.

He'd only been trying to do her a favour. He had no idea what to do about Erik suddenly reappearing, should he tell her? Should he take her away, to be damned with her objections? Should he send in an army to get him and then reveal to her what he really was?

He couldn't tell her. Erik would kill him, and she obviously didn't want to leave – he'd only be doing exactly what Erik had done to her before. And Erik was far too clever for any army to find him. He had no other option than to sit back and wish things were different.

"Have you been having anymore nightmares? Any... dreams?" he questioned, turning to her once more.

"It was the same last night. I can feel him, holding me. And... well, I know you don't believe in it – but I asked that voice, and he said he was always holding me, but I could feel him at night," she explained almost timidly. Nadir nodded.

"Be careful, Christine. Just... be careful," he instructed. She frowned slightly at his sudden serious tone, but nodded regardless.

"Bien sûr, Nadir. Of course," she assured him.

Nadir sighed. She didn't understand his true meaning, but it was enough for now.

* * *

As Christine began to rehearse with the rest of the opera company, the strain she was under began to grow. Each night her dreams grew worse, but she always felt those familiar arms holding her tightly when she awoke screaming. But in the mornings she was tired and filled with grief, because the tighter her angel held her, the more she missed Erik. So she poured her heart and soul into singing his opera, and ignored the whispers and stares from those at the theatre. They only got worse when she broke down during a rehearsal – she simply did not feel strong enough to survive Erik's opera.

"What's wrong? What happened?" she vaguely heard Reyer cry angrily when she stopped singing suddenly, her throat caught with a sob. Everyone turned to her in confusion as she began to tremble with tears.

From time to time it would just... _hit her_, that Erik was gone, and it would bring her to her knees. It happened as they were rehearsing the 'Point of No Return' scene; she could remember working with Erik on that song, and those pleasant memories had soon turned into an anguished reminder that he was dead.

"You there, take her to her room, we'll rehearse the beginning of act two instead. Go! And someone go tell Firmin and André, tell them to have Kahn pick her up," Reyer practically growled. It was obvious he wanted to scream at Christine for being so fragile and interrupting his work, but he knew his place – he could not afford to anger the Phantom.

Meg immediately rushed to Christine to help her to her dressing room, and another ballet girl dashed off to tell the managers what had happened.

"Christine? Are you alright? Are you sick?" Meg asked anxiously as they slipped through the wings. Christine shook her head firmly.

"I'm just – tired, Meg. That's all," she muttered. Meg didn't seem content with this response, but she assisted her friend to her dressing room without another word.

"Do you need anything?"

"No, I'm fine. Go back and rehearse, I'll be out in a minute," Christine urged Meg when she sat herself down on the chaise of her dressing room with a weary sigh.

"Alright then, but Nadir should be here soon. Go home and have a bath, Christine, you don't look well," she instructed in her sternest tone. Christine gave a weak smile and nodded, before the girl left her in peace.

She reclined back on the chaise with a long, slow sigh, trying to control her breathing. She'd felt the beginnings of a panic attack when she was onstage and she wanted to keep herself calm.

'_Are you alright_?' came the concerned voice of her angel, whispering to her gently.

"I suppose. Just tired and... I'm just tired," she replied quietly, shifting slightly to find a comfortable position, curling her legs up to her chest.

'_You sang well today, before – whatever that was. You mustn't let your emotions get to you, think of the music, that is all that matters,_' the voice commented.

"I don't care. I'm tired and I'm hurting and I just want Erik back," she snapped bitterly.

'_I thought you wanted to sing for his opera?_'

"I do. But I don't want to at the same time. I just want to go to sleep and never wake up again," she snapped. Her angel sighed.

'_That's not the Christine I know speaking. That's the weak Christine who first came to Erik many months ago. The strong Christine would not say such things_,' he reminded her. She sniffled and wiped her dark eyes.

She knew it was true. She knew her angel was right, the old Christine would fall apart, the new Christine was stronger than that.

But then again, the new Christine had Erik with her...

'_Go to sleep, child. Go home and rest and I will come to you tonight in your sleep and help ease your soul_,' the voice cooed gently. She sighed as he began to sing a soft lullaby.

'_Wandering child, so lost, so helpless,_

_Yearning for my guidance..._

_Too long you've wandered in winter,_

_Far from my fathering gaze,_

_Wildly your mind beats against me_

_You resist yet your soul obeys..._'

The next thing she knew she was being carried half asleep by Nadir out to his car and was placed gently in the back seat. She sat up as he pulled over to a stop before Madame Giry's apartment building.

"Nadir?" she mumbled, rubbing her tired eyes.

"Afternoon, Christine. Apparently you had a bit of a breakdown," he commented with a soft, gentle smile. She nodded, her cheeks flushing. "Was it about Erik again?" he questioned. She gave another nod.

"Singing his songs... it's difficult," she shrugged sheepishly. He gave her a comforting smile before they both climbed out of the car.

"Try to get some rest, and please, eat," he requested, stopping at the front door to the apartment. Christine nodded, and he turned to leave.

"Nadir?"

He turned, one brow raised.

"I am grateful that you're looking after me. It means a lot to me," she said suddenly. He smiled, and shrugged.

"Someone has to," was all he commented, before leaving her without another word. Christine sighed as she entered the apartment – what she needed was a long hot bath and an early night. She was too tired to go to dinner with Raoul, she would probably pay the next night as he complained about not being able to see her, but she didn't care. She was tired, and she needed to rest.

* * *

Christine sat up in an unfamiliar bed, red silk sheets pooling around her unclothed waist. Sunshine illuminated the room around her and her heart instantly began to race – she knew that room.

She wanted to cry out for joy. It had all been a dream! Those past few horrible, horrible months had been nothing but a dream, she'd never left the castle and they were going to leave for Austria that morning! She felt joyful tears slide down her cheeks as she snatched the Oriental robe from the end of the bed and slid out, ready to rush down the hall and find Erik, to kiss him, to hold him, to pull him back into that room and never let him leave.

It shattered with a sickening, icy sensation when she spied the pale, prostrate, bleeding body on the floor by the bed. She screamed and rushed to Erik's side, crying out for someone, anyone to hear her, to come help. Her heart almost seemed to stop beating as she felt that cold, clammy skin and the crimson blood staining her hands. They'd already come – they had already killed him, and she hadn't even woken up to help him! It was _her_ fault!

_She_ was the reason Erik had died!

She let out a wail of agony and cried out against the sight, feeling arms pull at her from behind, pulling her away from Erik, but she thrashed violently against them.

"Christine! Christine, it's alright, I've got you," a familiar voice tried to soothe her. She slowly stopped thrashing, and turned to see Erik beside her, holding her, his eyes wide and searching hers.

"You're alive!" she breathed, turning back to the body that still lay on the floor. Erik smiled to her, and smoothed back her hair.

"No, but I'm here, in your mind, at least, my angel," he whispered gently. Christine gave another cry of pain and buried her head in his chest.

Before she knew what was happening she laid on the bed with Erik beside her, kissing her temple, her brow, her nose, her damp cheeks and her quivering mouth. She responded with force, desperate to feel him close to her, squeezing her eyes closed so she never had to wake. Her small hands desperately tugged at his shirt, which he pulled off obligingly.

"Christine, we can't –" he murmured when she tugged at his belt. She kissed him hard in response, and he groaned against her mouth, his hands pushing back her robe with no more objections.

"If this is a dream then I don't want to waste it," she gasped against his mouth.

Erik's grip tightened on her waist as he slipped beneath the unfamiliar sheets of her bed in Paris. He knew he shouldn't – he knew he _really_ shouldn't be doing what he was doing, she was barely conscious and still thought she was in a dream, but he couldn't stand her drifting in and out of nightmares for a minute longer. And besides – it had been months now since that night before they were separated and he longed to be close to her again. So he slipped the nightgown off her shoulders and pressed his lips against her neck, pushing all thoughts of 'right' and 'wrong' from his mind.

**A/N: And... this is where things start to get ridiculous. I'm like that :D**


	25. The Confrontation

Christine's eyes fluttered open as the morning light shone in from the window by her bed. She sat up and looked around with a pained groan. It was just as she thought – she wasn't in Erik's room back at the castle, she was alone in her bed in Madame Giry's apartment. She sighed in disappointment and rolled over, hugging her legs against her chest and wishing she could squeeze her eyes tight and then open them to find herself in Erik's bed.

But it was to no avail. She finally roused herself and changed to meet Nadir for breakfast.

'_Good morning, child. I hope you're feeling better_,' that gentle whisper sounded after she had finished her session in the gym and came to her usual practise room to warm up.

"As well as I can be," she shrugged morosely, beginning to run scales. Her angel did not speak for a few minutes, but took his chance when she was reaching for her water bottle.

'_Is something troubling you, my dear?_' the voice questioned gently.

"If you're an angel then you should be able to tell why I'm upset without asking!" she huffed angrily.

'_I can see you're in a poor mood this morning. Perhaps I should leave you to _–'

"No. Don't, I'm sorry," she muttered suddenly, interrupting her angel. He did not respond, so she sighed and plucked a few stray keys on the piano. "Last night I dreamt that I was with Erik again."

'_Do you not dream this every night_?'

"No, I mean... I was _with_ Erik. In his bed, back at the castle. It seemed so real, but when I woke up this morning it was all a dream. I just wish it hadn't been," she muttered ashamedly.

'_Ah, I see. But you will not let this get in the way of your music, I hope?_' he questioned, sounding slightly amused, but not disapproving.

"I try not to, you _know_ I try. But I want him back so badly," she practically whispered, her voice weak. She took a deep breath and began to play before her angel could respond.

Erik shifted slightly behind the dressing screen so he could watch her face as she sang. He was relieved that she wasn't horrified about what had happened the night before – but he was filled with guilt. It was as good as rape, she hadn't been conscious enough to make a decision about what they were going to do, but he did it anyway. And he knew if he were given the same opportunity, he would do it again, and again, and again. He craved her more than he'd ever craved and anything before and it was simply too much for him to deny. He was half tempted to walk up behind her and press his lips to the nape of her neck.

But he shouldn't. He couldn't. He was only coming to her to help her move on, to help her continue on with the life he wanted for her. She could never be a star while under his commanding hand; she needed to be devoted to the music and nothing else. He had to use the power he had over her to heal her wounds and make her realise that she truly was better off without him.

He guided her for the next hour as she sang before she left the room to go get lunch before the main rehearsals began. He found himself passing through the halls of his theatre listlessly, he did not know where he was going and he didn't know why. His mind was clouded with melodies he couldn't give a voice, and with images burnt into his mind from the night before. He shouldn't have made love to her – his punishment would be a sense of delicious agony until he could feel what he felt again, and he wouldn't allow himself to feel that once more. He couldn't take advantage of Christine again. He needed to fix his attention on completing his opera and making sure those useless managers did as they were told.

He stopped suddenly when her voice floated down a tunnel that lead behind the main stage. She sang her aria with a crystal-like clarity that he'd only heard in his mind before meeting her. Even as a young child who sung lullabies and nursery rhymes he knew she had a gift, and he'd indulged himself for long enough by teaching her. He needed to let her have the freedom he wanted for her.

* * *

"I'm glad you stopped by. It's been a long time, Erik," Charles smiled warmly as he set down a cup of tea before his guest. Erik did not move, his eyes were trained on the shape of a young child playing with a large dollhouse in the next room. She was quite small, about ten or eleven, a skinny and pale young thing wearing a dulled pink dress and odd socks that went up to her bony knees, a long mane of frizzy chocolate hair trailing down her back, and wide green eyes that had flashed with the fear the moment they took in his intimidating frame. She was singing softly to herself, a little French lullaby of sorts.

"How old is the girl?" he frowned, glancing back to Daaé, who was smiling fondly at his young daughter.

"Ten years and two months. She has a pretty little voice, no?" he commented, taking a seat. Erik gave a slow, vague nod as he sipped his tea, his eyes still trained on the child.

"Does she have an instructor?" he demanded curiously.

"No, her mother used to sing to her, but... well..." Daaé trailed off, with a small, pained smile.

"Do you mind?" Erik questioned, gesturing over to the child.

"No, no, of course not. Please, I'm sure she'd like to meet you," he encouraged. Erik rose from his seat and crossed into the next room. The girl looked up and he was met with another flash of fear in those pretty emerald eyes. She clutched onto a doll tightly.

"Bonjour, child. What's your name?" he enquired briskly. She blinked and trembled slightly, as if in fear. "Speak up, I can't hear you," he commanded.

"C – Christine," she mumbled, taking a step back. Erik frowned – the last time he had seen this child she was only a baby, and could barely speak. It was rather surreal.

"Christine, do you enjoy singing?" he questioned. She nodded, blinking her big bright eyes. "And who taught you to sing?" he demanded. She shrugged.

"Mère sang to me."

"But did your mother _teach_ you to sing?" he continued. She looked thoughtful for a moment, and then shook her head. He nodded, and practically tugged her towards the grand piano across the room. "Come, child. Sit here," he instructed, sitting down on the piano stool and making room for her to sit beside him. She tentatively did so, but not before sitting her doll in between them. "Now, I want you to sing the notes I play. Do you understand?" he questioned. She nodded slowly as he played a middle C.

She sang the note, perfectly on pitch. He raised it an octave, and she sang it once more. He raised it to the sixth and she harmonised with it perfectly, singing every tone up until an C6, before she her now shaky voice began to cough.

"Good. Again," he commanded, playing the middle C once more. He struck notes as low as she was able before taking his hands off the keys. Erik turned to look at her with a frown. She blinked up at him. "I don't suppose you have any idea of what you just did," he muttered. She blinked and clutched her doll to her.

"Sang?" she offered sheepishly. He rolled his eyes.

"You currently have a range of three octaves, child, and that will only increase when you reach a respectable age. You're quite unnatural," he informed her. She tugged on one of her chocolate brown locks.

"Why do you have a mask on?" she questioned curiously.

"Because, I just do. Now come along," he commanded, picking her up from beneath the arms and carrying her into the kitchen as if she were some sort of domesticated animal. He sat her on the kitchen table, her scrawny legs dangling over the edge, a picture of childlike innocence. "Do you realise that your child is a prodigy?" he questioned Daaé with a frown. He smiled.

"She's got a very sweet little voice on her," he replied, pressing a kiss to his little girl's cheek. "She plays the piano, too. Not brilliantly, but she knows a few nice little etudes, I think she'll be quite competent in a few years," he commented, tickling her playfully as she giggled, her eyes shining in adoration for her father.

"She's got more than a 'sweet little voice', she has perfect pitch. Christine, what note is this?" he questioned, humming an A flat. She reached for his hands, spreading three fingers on one hand and two on the other, and pressed down on his left hand middle finger.

"That one. _Ahhhhh!_" she sung clearly. Daaé frowned.

"I'd not noticed that. Not even I have perfect pitch," he muttered.

"You've bred a supreme musical creature."

"Erik, she's a child!" Daaé laughed. Erik shook his head.

"She's a gift. I want to teach her," he decided firmly.

"I'd be happy to pay you for music lessons," Daaé offered. Erik frowned.

"No, I need to take her back to my home and teach her there. I have no desire to live in Switzerland," he insisted, taking the doll from Christine and placing it on the table beside her, inspecting her hands thoughtfully. She laughed at his strange behaviour.

"I'm not moving to Southern France, Erik. I'm perfectly happy here," Daaé replied sternly.

"I don't need you there. Just the child," he shrugged simply as he held the girl's mouth open and peered inside momentarily, before releasing her. The old man gave a low, amused chuckle.

"Erik, I'm not sending my daughter to live with a man she's only just met in a country she doesn't remember living in. She's my only child – she's all I have left now," he objected gently. Erik huffed in annoyance.

"Well she's no good to you, and I have staff, they can make sure she's looked after," he insisted.

"Erik, she's my child. I won't just give you my little girl," Daaé said with a faintly amused smile.

"Well, at least you've secured yourself a visitor – I want to see how she progresses," Erik muttered, releasing her hands.

"I would like her to be involved in the opera one day, though. Perhaps when she's older..." he trailed off.

"When she's older I would appreciate if you could at least send her to me during her holidays, I should be able to work with a few months a year," he agreed, still frowning at the child sitting before him. "Ten years old... She obviously has very little theoretical knowledge, but that can be taught. What she has _now _can't be," he commented.

"She's my angel. She's clever enough to learn anything," Daaé smiled, ruffling his daughter's hair. She smiled lovingly to her father, and then climbed off the dining table to continue to play with her dollhouse.

Erik watched the child play with an insatiable curiosity.

She would be great, one day.

* * *

Erik sighed as he leant back against the wall of one of the hidden passageways, watching her dance. She was improving, to be sure, but she still needed to work harder to be up to her usual levels of skill. He'd been so lost in memories and watching her body twist and turn, absolutely entranced by the beautiful creature before him that he didn't even notice as the hours slipped by. He didn't feel the need to eat or sleep – it had once been so that music was enough to feed him alone. Now he needed Christine, too.

He couldn't believe how she had changed from the various Christine's he had known. A small baby, barely able to walk, who was sometimes brought to rehearsals by the wife of one of the violinists. Once or twice Erik had spoken to Aina Daaé and she had proudly brandished her infant as if she was the most important thing ever to have existed. And then a clumsy and bony ten-year-old who spent her time with her nose in a book or her head in the clouds, and had little interest in what he had tried to teach her. A tragically damaged fifteen-year-old girl who he was sure could never be repaired, and served only as a waste of a beautiful gift. And then the beautiful, fiery young woman he'd brought to his home and had grown to love over a few short months.

He wanted to see Christine as a triumphant star. He needed that Christine to complete the set – it would be his life achievement and with that he could happily disappear, knowing she was happy and was receiving the adoration she deserved. Because she deserved more than he could ever give her.

* * *

Christine awoke with an empty feeling. That night had been the same as the whole week before it – she was saved from her nightmares by Erik, and her fear would dissolve into a passion that would disappear before morning. She didn't know what was hardest, the nightmares or the... fantasies. It was getting worse as she poured more of her energy into his opera; she threw her entire heart and soul into those passionate songs and felt herself fading away with each rehearsal.

Opening night would be in two months, and she still did not know if she was going to be able to sing his songs and survive the process. It was taking everything she had and then some, but she knew she had to give her all to make Erik proud.

"You're looking tired," Nadir commented as they finished up breakfast. She shrugged and pushed her croissant around on her plate. "I thought the nightmares were getting better," he frowned.

"They are. It's only one a night now. I'm just... tired," she explained simply.

"Well what are your nightmares about? Is it still the same thing?"

"It usually starts off the same way, it seems like Erik is alive but then I find his body, or he doesn't come when I call, and I'm always left alone. But then... then it's like he comes back and things are better again," she murmured with a slight blush.

"He comes back?"

"Yes. And usually... it ends up the same way," she answered, avoiding his eyes.

"Do you mean –"

"Yes."

"Oh," Nadir muttered with a frown.

"And it always seems... so real," she sighed. "It's like I can feel him next to me, holding me, comforting me. But I always wake up alone again," she explained, pushing aside a few crumbs from the side of her plate.

"I can imagine. Are you ready to go?" he questioned, suddenly sounding impatient. She nodded and picked up her bag, walking quickly to keep up with his quick strides. He did not leave her outside the theatre as he usually did, but went in with her, mumbling something about how he had someone to see.

Christine bid him goodbye with little suspicion. He was acting strangely, but it was time to work. She didn't have time to worry herself with Nadir's unusual behaviour.

* * *

Erik growled in irritation as he heard Nadir's footsteps coming up the stone hallway. He slid from atop his place on the stone wall where he had been watching Christine stretch for her ballet practise to wander down to meet him, wishing he wasn't so fond of the man so he could simply kill him and be done with it.

"Are you sleeping with her?" Nadir demanded angrily. Erik rolled his eyes.

"Go away, Daroga. I'm busy," he commanded with a slight wave of his hand, turning to go back to continue watching Christine.

"Don't walk away from me, Erik, you're taking advantage of her!" he practically roared.

"I've seen the way you've been looking at her Daroga, you're only saying this out of jealousy," Erik called behind him.

He turned his head over his shoulder to see Nadir blushing at those words. He had seen the way his friend would stare at Christine, he couldn't blame him, but he certainly didn't approve. Nadir scowled and shook his head, as if to convince himself of something before he spoke again.

"You will _not_ use that girl! She's broken her heart over you and all you can do is pretend you're helping by lying between her legs in her sleep!" he continued furiously. Erik continued walking. He didn't want a discussion.

"I'm leaving, Daroga. Don't follow me," he snapped, still not turning.

"She's still a _child_! She's seventeen years old; you're probably about twice her age! Have you even thought about the consequences?" he demanded.

"Daroga, when Reza was dying you were prepared to do _anything_ to ease his pain," Erik cried suddenly, turning around to come face-to-face with his pursuer. Nadir flinched, as if in pain.

"That's different. I didn't have power over his suffering," he muttered curtly.

"And neither do I, I made a promise to Daaé and I made one to _her_, I need to keep those promises by doing all I can to make things hurt less for her," he insisted, his eyes flashing darkly. Nadir swallowed.

"This isn't making it hurt less. If anything, she wants you more."

Erik sighed, and turned away. "She screams at night. I can't bear that. I didn't mean to at first – but it stops her from waking up screaming and crying every damned night," he muttered, his eyes focused on the ground before his feet.

"You can't condone what you're doing. I don't care how damned selfish you are, she's a _child_, and if you don't have the decency to make your mind up about staying or going then you obviously don't deserve her," Nadir practically spat. Erik did not reply, but it was clear by the tensing of his jaw that he had heard. "You're either in her life completely or you're out of it completely. Don't force her to live for your ghost. If you had any decency or if you loved her at _all_ then you –"

"Don't you _dare_ question how much I love Christine!" Erik growled suddenly, pushing the man up against the wall with his hand at his neck. "You seem to forget that it was _your_ betrayal that did this! It's _your_ fault that she screams out every night, it's _your_ fault that I'm stuck _here_ in this godforsaken place while every inch of me dies off without her!" he snarled between gritted teeth, his eyes flashing with a dark, furious fire that Nadir had only seen once or twice in their entire friendship.

"E – Erik, please, I – I can't breathe," he spluttered, desperately gasping for breath.

"I ought to kill you right now, Daroga. Don't you assume that whatever loyalty I have to you is even a _fraction_ of the complete devotion I have for Christine!" he hissed, before dropping the man. He fell to the floor with a thump and a rasping intake of breath before he began to cough violently.

"Then – _go_ – to – her," Nadir struggled to get out.

"I have to give her the chance to move on. I wouldn't have had to do that if it weren't for you, so I owe _you_ for destroying the closest thing to happiness that I've ever had," Erik growled finally, before leaving his old friend rasping for breath on the floor without another word.

* * *

Christine was almost eager to go to sleep that night after an arduous rehearsal session. She now had less time to practise her singing and to restore her old muscles, as Madame Giry was teaching her and the other dancers their new choreography for the opera. Her day had been taken up with gym sessions, private practise, costume fittings, a rehearsal with Piangi and then another with the rest of the singers, and the entire ballet troop had been forced to stay back till nine in order to work on the opening piece. She was absolutely exhausted by the day, not to mention another dinner with Raoul.

She truly _did_ hate Raoul for what he had done to Erik, but at the same time, she found it difficult to believe that the kind young boy she had known for so many years was capable of such a thing. It was unimaginable; he was too... well, docile.

After a long, hot bath, Christine slid into her bed with a heavy sigh. She wanted to be held by her angel, or by Erik, whoever would take her in their arms. But neither of them were _truly_ real, were they? Her mind was a confusion of thoughts about her angel and about the phantom Erik that visited her in her sleep and made love to her to fight away the bad dreams.

"Christine? Are you awake?" came a quiet voice from outside her bedroom. Christine wanted to growl in irritation.

"Yes, Meg. Come in," she called in response, instantly wishing she had not.

"Did you just get back from your date with Raoul?" the familiar blonde questioned, slipping into her room and sitting down on the end of the bed. Christine sat up and turned on the bedside lamp.

"It's not exactly a date. He just sits there and rambles on," she shrugged simply. Meg nodded slowly, pulling on one of her golden locks.

"Do you like Raoul, Christine?" she enquired suddenly.

"What?" she exclaimed in shock.

"Do you like Raoul? As more than a friend?" she demanded, her voice growing more insistent.

"No, of course not. Raoul's practically my brother," she answered almost immediately. Meg scowled.

"Well he likes _you_. And he's young and rich and handsome, Christine. You can't be too picky, you know," she retorted pointedly.

"Meg, what's gotten into you?" she questioned incredulously. Meg rolled her blue eyes.

"Well it just seems to me like you're taking your sweet time about getting over Erik. I mean, Raoul is right there in front of you. And I heard him tell mother that he was going to propose to you soon. It's not really fair that you get all the attention, you know," she muttered darkly. Christine struggled for words.

"I – I don't – Meg, I don't love Raoul!" she objected insistently. Meg scoffed.

"I know, you only love _Erik_, you live for _Erik_, everything is always about how you're handling Erik's death, everyone is falling over themselves trying to make sure you're comfortable!" she snapped. "I would _love_ a man like Raoul! Ballet dancers don't make much, you know. We're not as rich as opera singers," she spat, her eyes flashing darkly.

"Meg, if you need money then I'd be happy to –"

"Well that's not _it_, the fact is that you have a great guy right in front of you and all you can think about is a dead man. Erik isn't coming back; you need to get over yourself," she declared finally, sliding off the bed and storming out of the room.

Christine watched her go with an open mouth and wide, incredulous eyes. She wanted to go after her; she wanted to shout at her so she knew that she could _have_ Raoul if she wanted! She didn't ask for people to help her – she would have preferred if they'd shot her too so she could die in Erik's arms! She made to get out of bed and go respond to Meg's sudden, unexplained outburst of anger, before that ghostly, ethereal voice stopped her.

'_Don't. She's just jealous that today was all about you at the opera. She didn't get a lead role in the auditions and she's taking her anger out on you_,' her angel calmed her instantly. Christine slid her legs back beneath the sheets of her bed and crossed her arms against her chest huffily.

"Well that's hardly my fault. And she can have Raoul and all that attention – I don't want it. All I need is you and Erik's music," she muttered indignantly.

'_Child, do not be bitter. Go to sleep. You have rehearsals again tomorrow._'

"Will I be able to feel you again tonight?" she questioned softly.

'_Of course, angel. I am with you every night. You can feel me when you need to_,' he assured her gently. She shuddered slightly.

"Angel, is it just in my dreams or... _c'est-à-dire_, do you – is it you, that... does what I think you do?" she stammered nervously.

'_Well, that depends on what you mean, my child,_' he replied, as if amused. She blushed.

"I'm asking if you – come to me at night," she muttered.

'_Is that a double entendre?'_ he questioned, almost cheekily.

"Please, just answer me!" she demanded angrily. He chuckled.

'_I do what I must to soothe you, to comfort you... to please you, angel. If my touch is what you require to chase away your nightmares, then I will grant it to you,_' he informed her, deliberately avoiding answering the question, but making his meaning obvious. She nodded slowly.

"Do you... feel the same things I feel? Is it different, being an angel?" she questioned quietly. He did not respond for a few minutes.

'_I feel... frustrated. I am not fully here, I am not fully with you, and that takes away from my assouvissement. But it gives me pleasure to please you, ma chérie,_' he answered finally. She pulled her blankets up beneath her chin and shifted to find a comfortable position. '_Are you angry?_' he questioned gently. She shook her head.

"No. Of course not. It's difficult to explain – but I don't feel like I'm betraying Erik. Because you _are_ Erik," she explained.

Erik frowned suddenly from his place behind the changing screen in the corner of her room. Surely she didn't know, did she?

'_What do you mean, child?_' he demanded, perhaps a little abruptly.

"Well, it's just that... you've always been with me, in one way or another. When I was young you came to me through my parents, and then when I was older you came to me through Erik, but now you come to me through... whatever form this is. So it's alright," she answered thoughtfully.

Erik relaxed as she replied. So she didn't know his secret.

'_Go to sleep, child. If you need me I shall come to you. If you cry out, if you are scared, then I will love you. I will be here for you,_' he assured her gently, before he began to sing a soft lullaby.

Before long her eyes had drifted shut and her breathing had slowed. He slowly crept out and turned off her bedside lamp, and moved to sit at the end of her bed, his eyes trained on her face.

He lowered his head, almost in shame as he thought of what he was doing. He wished to comfort her, but was his presence in her life truly comforting her?

But he couldn't resist stealing those moments. She was the most important thing in his entire existence. He _needed_ her, but perhaps Nadir was right, perhaps he was only doing her harm?

He made the decision. When the opera was over he would leave her. He would try to live on without her, but it was more likely that he would be too weak. Not that his life mattered at all, regardless. She thought he was dead, anyway. He would just... live up to her expectations.

Or rather, die to them.

He was jarred from his senses when he heard her whimper. He moved to lie down beside her and gently smooth back her dark hair, but as her whimpers and small cries grew in intensity he knew she was in the midst of a nightmare, so he pressed his lips to her neck, and then traced a path up her jaw. She turned slightly into him, and before long his comforting touches were dissolving into passionate kisses and she was once more tugging at his shirt and trousers. He sighed into her mouth as he slipped between the sheets of her bed.

He knew that what he was doing was wrong.

But dammit, he wasn't about to stop.

**A/N: So, hopefully this has cleared a few things up about Erik? I really love that flashback of Erik visiting Charles. That was fun to write :D**


	26. The Stage Hand

Meg slammed her bedroom door shut angrily. She was just so... furious!

She hadn't minded Christine coming to live with her and her mother. In fact, she was excited to have a 'sister', even after her mother told her the truth about the arrangement. Christine had been kidnapped and violated by Erik, the mysterious masked man that Meg had been drawn to from the days of her youth. He was so handsome, and had a beautiful... presence to him, even though he wore that mask. At first she had been inwardly devastated to hear of Erik's death, as she had been harbouring secret fantasies of him coming to her one day... but gradually the situation was explained to her; the reasons behind Christine's sudden appearance in her life, when the last time they had seen each other was when they were babies. Not that Christine had any real idea.

She hadn't hated Christine until very recently. She was annoyed by all the attention she was receiving, and she thought her a bit of a drip, really, because every time she asked her to go shopping or to see a film she would give a weak sort of smile and mumble that she didn't feel up to it. She was so _miserable_ all the time.

And after hearing Raoul de Chagny, the handsome investor who was the reason why they had all received new shoes and would be getting new costumes that season, was going to propose to her – after spending the whole day with everyone doing everything for _Christine_, she couldn't help but feel angry. The stupid girl got everything she wanted. She had a beautiful voice, Meg could begrudgingly admit, but she was a clumsy and weak dancer and she was probably too frail to act.

If she had only been give the chance, Meg was sure she could have dazzled those managers. After all, she had a good voice, _and_ she was the better dancer! And if only Raoul would pay attention to _her_...

She rolled her eyes as she heard the stupid girl's moans and whimpers and cries as she slept. Every night she had to listen to that girl's bloody nightmares. It was more than tedious.

Meg collapsed in her bed with a scowl.

It just wasn't fair.

* * *

Christine tried not to let Meg's change in behaviour bother her over the next few weeks. She focused herself entirely on the opera as the rehearsals progressed and the managers demanded more and more practise time. When she wasn't working on her music she was in the gym, trying to build up her muscle, but she still had no more than what she had before she started her rigorous training sessions, only more stamina.

And to make things even more complicated, Raoul was still insisting on going out somewhere nice each night for dinner when all she wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep. It seemed like every night she was hanging on his arm in some fancy dress, feigning a smile to placate him. It wasn't as if she hadn't tried to send him away – but he always wore her down and she found it too tiring to resist. She was beginning to feel the strain, and it was only a few months till the production opened.

She found herself eating less and feeling ill more often. Her sleep was still disturbed and she could hardly concentrate during the day, often coming over with dizzying spells that rendered her almost unable to rehearse.

"You're not looking well, you know. You're getting thinner, and Christine, you're already too underweight," Nadir reminded her gently one morning over breakfast. She rolled her eyes. Nadir would always tell her that.

"I try to eat, but it doesn't stay down," she retorted. He frowned.

"You're working yourself too hard. Ask for a few days off and try to get some rest," he advised. She ran a hand through her dark hair.

"Nadir, I don't need a few days off. The opening night is only a few months away – I have to work harder, if anything," she insisted. He rolled his eyes.

"You're being ridiculous. You'll wear yourself down to a shadow," he said sternly.

"I'm working on this opera, Nadir. The opera comes first," she insisted.

"How much do you weigh, Christine?" he demanded. She pushed her toast around on the plate. "How much?"

"About forty-two, maybe," she answered pointedly.

"Christine, that's ridiculous! You should be fifteen kilos more than that, at least! No wonder you can't make any muscle, you need at least some fat to turn into the muscle first!" he exclaimed. She rolled her eyes.

"Nadir, I'm _fine_. I feel fine. Can we just drop this line of discussion?" she snapped. He sighed, and nodded moodily.

It was as if _everyone_ was on her case about her weight that day. The costume manager gave a disgusted huff as she made measurements for Christine's next lot of dresses, Madame Giry gave her disapproving looks when she saw the way her hipbones jutted in her leotard during the ballet rehearsal, and even her angel made a comment as she rested on the chaise in her dressing room during her lunch break.

'_You're not eating?_' he commented. She shook her head, but gave a soft smile to hear him.

"Not today. What do you think of the chorus? They're coming along wonderfully with those harmonies, but I still think the ninth sounds discordant," she commented lazily, stretching out her tired muscles.

'_You're looking ill, Christine. I could feel it last night, you must eat more_,' he replied, as if he hadn't heard her question. She rolled her eyes.

"I thought you 'weren't really there'?" she challenged.

'_I am 'there' enough to feel the frailty of your body. It's not healthy, my child,_' he murmured in response.

"I'm sick of everyone trying to tell me what to do! I eat as much as I can force myself to!" she snapped curtly.

'_If Erik told you to gain more weight, would you_?' he challenged.

She did not reply, only grabbed her bag and stormed out of her room to the nearest café, but a chocolate croissant at lunch that she threw up an hour later did not stop Raoul from making it perfectly clear that she needed to see a doctor about her weight issues.

She felt weak, but she couldn't help but cry as she slid into bed that evening, pulling the blankets up to cover her head.

'_Child, what is wrong?_' she heard her angel question gently. She sniffled.

"I'm hideous! Everyone knows it, but I wish they would just leave me alone, I'm _trying_ to get healthier, but I just can't!" she wept pathetically. Her angel sighed.

'_I am concerned, Christine, that is all. And do not ever feel that you are any less than perfect. You're the most beautiful creature known to man, the shape of your body does not affect your beauty,_' he assured her gently. She curled up into a tight ball, but did not respond. In her dreams that night Erik rejected her for the harsh lines and protruding bones of her figure, only to turn around and take her in his arms and kiss all his hurtful comments away. She felt beautiful when he held her, when he loved her.

She would try to eat tomorrow; her sleepy mind told her as Erik slid out from beneath her sheets and righted her nightgown before pulling on his trousers and shirt once more.

Erik cast one last glance down to her before he pressed a gentle kiss to the side of her face, and slowly slid the window open to leave her room before the sun could rise. He had felt her hipbones sharply against his stomach as he lay with her that night. With the moon shining down on her as he closed the window after having slipped out onto the terrace she looked eerie and desperately unwell, almost like a corpse. He was half tempted to rouse her from her slumber at that very moment and demand that she eat, she was so pale and thin. For a moment he questioned how she would even survive the production process of his opera, it was a few months till the opening night and he could not afford for her to become ill. She had to take care of herself, or he would have to do it himself. He knew she was strong, so strong, but he had to be sure that was enough.

When he returned to the theatre he abandoned his original routine of sleeping for a few hours before she arrived to rehearse so he could write another note to the managers. He sealed it and placed it atop André's desk before returning to his chambers for an hour or two's slumber.

* * *

"It's ridiculous."

"But he has a point, you know. We need to ensure all our performers are healthy."

"But the cost!"

"We _have_ a physician, Madame Giry will not need to be paid any extra for her duties," Firmin reminded his partner as he paced the length of their office.

"You know why he's doing this, don't you," André practically spat. Firmin rolled his eyes.

"Well he's _right_, Daaé is simply fading away. And Piangi really must lose some weight, it's not healthy for a man his age," he retorted. André huffed, but nodded.

"Alright, we'll do it. It'll take all week, you know," he muttered bitterly. "I suppose she should do a general check up, as well as weight and fitness, and drugs, while we're at it – I don't like that look in the organist's eyes," André added. Firmin nodded.

"Good. But we can't send Daaé in first, she'll be suspicious. We'll have her go in on Monday for her check up, and maybe then her costume won't need to be taken in each week," he agreed.

"As long as she's singing, dancing and bringing in the Vicomte I don't care how many times we need to take in her costume. With all the talk of her around town we've already sold all our season tickets – I think we'll be able to add a few more dates to the run quite nicely," André smirked, greedily looking over the account books.

"It'll already be running longer than most productions we do," Firmin muttered uneasily. André brushed him off.

"It's a new opera. We run nine shows a week for a few months and we'll be rather rich, my friend," he beamed.

"Can we truly sell that many tickets?"

"We've already _sold_ half of that, and we can bring in some more patrons with a few galas, and if we make a deal with some of the hotels around we could bring in international guests, you know how easy it is to get the Americans to buy," he continued eagerly.

"Fine then, do what you wish. But do you really think Daaé will survive an extended production?" he questioned with a frown.

André made a small 'hmm' noise as he considered the question.

"Well, perhaps not nine. We might need to give her a few nights off, so if we run _Hannibal_ too, give that say, one or two shows a week, and she can have those nights off completely," he decided, sitting down behind his desk to make notes and calculations.

"I'm quite serious, André. The girl isn't going to last. She's falling apart," Firmin objected. His partner gave him a withering glare.

"Well that's what these medical check-ups he's insisting on are _for_! And she can have a nice long break before we start the next production, I'll send her to my sister in New Caledonia, she can lie on a beach for a month and rebuild her health," he decided, his tone indifferent. Firmin sighed.

"Alright. Fine. I'll go speak to Madame Giry," he muttered, turning heel and leaving André smirking at his figures.

It wasn't that he cared for the girl, because he honestly didn't; she was a way for them to make money. But he didn't want to make a fortune on one season and then have to find a new soprano because Daaé had killed herself with performances. Not to mention the fact that he didn't want to face any trouble from the Opera Ghost for exploiting the girl.

* * *

"I don't see the purpose of this," Christine muttered bitterly as she stepped onto the scales. Madame Giry frowned as she took down the results.

"You're in the dangerously underweight category for your height and age, Christine," she almost snapped, ushering her off the scales.

"I'm _fine_. You saw it yourself in the fitness test, my stamina is good," she objected.

"Your stamina has nothing to do with this. You're eating too little and training too much. You have to eat at least twice what you're eating now. I want you to gain twelve kilos, Christine, before opening night," she instructed. Christine rolled her eyes and scoffed.

"I try to eat but it doesn't stay down! I've told you time and time again! It's not my _fault_!" she snapped.

"Are you sleeping enough? Are you menstruating? Your body is out of order, you have no iron in your system," Madame Giry questioned, taking a seat beside her on the bench and clasping her hands tightly in hers. Christine could feel that she was genuinely worried.

"Well... no, actually. Not since I started training, and you know I never get much sleep," she shrugged weakly. Madame Giry sighed.

"Christine, please. We need to put you on a diet, lots of protein and fibre and iron, and you need to stop training so much. You don't have to be the best dancer in the company," she replied almost desperately.

"I'll try to eat more, but I need to build up my muscle and stamina. I have to do this, Madame Giry, I owe it to Erik to make sure his opera is a success," she insisted. The older woman sighed, and nodded.

"Alright. But I'm drawing up a diet for you, and no more skipping meals. You're to eat breakfast, lunch _and_ dinner, and have some nuts, cheese and bread between rehearsals to keep up your energy," she insisted. Christine nodded.

"D'accord, I'll do my best," she assured her with a weak smile, before rising to her feet and leaving the office.

Madame Giry sighed in frustration. She would need to have a meeting with Nadir to make sure she ate her breakfast, and then she would have to try to convince the managers to let her go home earlier so she could eat dinner. It just wasn't healthy.

"I agree, but she can hardly keep a thing down at breakfast," Nadir replied when she brought the topic up with him later that day. She scoffed at his lack of outrage for Christine's situation. His eyes were trained on some building design on his desk that he had been working on when she burst into his new apartment, which he had just moved into to be closer to Christine.

"We must do something! She's just fading away!" she insisted forcefully. Nadir sighed.

"I could tell you to go away, Marie, and let me finish my work, but that would be rude, and you would think I don't care about Christine," he muttered wearily, running a hand through his dark hair.

"I think she should pull out of the opera. You need to talk to her – after all we did to rescue her from Erik we can't let her kill herself with his memory," she decided firmly.

"Marie, there are things you don't know," Nadir muttered darkly.

"Oh? Like _what_, Kahn?" she snapped. He gave a very long, slow exhale of breath, as if he were about to say something he knew he shouldn't.

"We can't interfere with the opera, because... Erik isn't dead."

Madame Giry stepped back, as if slapped, and her blood instantly ran cold.

"H – How do you know? Are you sure? How are we still alive?" she questioned hurriedly, glancing around her, as if Erik could hear her even in Nadir's apartment.

"I've seen him, I've spoken to him. He's living in the theatre again, surely you must have known, they're performing _his_ opera," he frowned. She shook her head.

"No. He can't be. And he sent that opera to the managers before he died, that's it. He's not alive, we _saw_ him die," she insisted firmly. Nadir leant his elbows on the edge of the desk and rubbed his tired eyes.

"He wrote it for her. _She_ is Aminta. He's been here all along, ever since she started at the opera. And what's more, he's been pretending he's some sort of angel and speaking to her, playing on her beliefs," he informed her. Madame Giry clutched her chest, her heart pounding.

"This cannot be," she muttered desperately.

"It is. And we can't interfere, or you know what will happen. If there is any human being on earth who can cause absolute and total chaos, it's Erik. He'll wreak havoc on all of Paris if we dare take Christine away from him," he warned. She gave a small, vague nod.

"How are you still alive? How am _I_ still alive? And Raoul?" she questioned incredulously. Nadir shrugged.

"He and I go so far back that I don't think he has it in him to kill me; he knows that I wasn't trying to hurt him or Christine. I think he saw that I was looking after her and realised it's for the best," he answered simply. "But I don't push my luck. He almost _did_ kill me not long ago; I haven't dared see him again. I think he's waiting to get revenge on the lot of us, right now all he cares about is Christine; he won't leave her alone for a minute. So we're safe as long as she's singing," he explained. She collapsed in the nearest chair, still clutching her chest.

"He's going to kill Raoul, isn't he," she muttered. It wasn't a question, it was a clear statement.

"Yes, I believe so. He can perhaps forgive me, and I know he's grateful to you for supporting him when he was young, but he owes nothing to Raoul. He's simply waiting," he nodded.

"We can't let this –"

"We can't interfere, Marie. We _cannot_, for Christine's sake," he practically snapped. Madame Giry almost flinched with the force of his words. "Erik is obsessed with her. I've only ever seen him this entranced with music. And to him, Christine _is_ music, but she's more than that. She's music he can touch and feel and teach, their mutual aberration for each other is much bigger than we imagined," he insisted.

"But surely we can _do_ something, Nadir!" she objected. He shook his head firmly.

"No. They're going to burn themselves out with their fervour, but there's not a single thing we can do about it. Marie, they'd both go to the end of the earth for each other. A passion like that can't just be turned off – she will _never_ leave what little she has left of him and he'd rather kill her and himself than be separated," he said sternly. She gave a small, defeated sigh.

"Neither of them ever do anything by halves. If only we had gotten there earlier..." she murmured bitterly. Nadir shook his head.

"No. She might not have been as heartbroken, but he would still come after her. Marie, he's known her since she was a child. I think whatever it is that draws them together – I don't want to cheapen the word by calling it 'love', because it's not, it's a mutual need and obsession – it's been brewing inside him for almost seventeen years," he explained forcefully.

"Well... what do we do? She's _ill_, Nadir!" she insisted forcefully. He nodded.

"I know she is. Perhaps you should talk to him, see what he can do. He leaves enough trinkets in her dressing room, he should be able to leave her some food she might want to eat," he shrugged simply, before turning back to his papers.

Madame Giry sighed. She simply couldn't believe it – how would she ever feel safe again? Erik was a monster. He would never stop until he got what he wanted, and if Christine was what he wanted, then there was no hope for the girl. She felt helpless, not being able to do anything for her, but what _could_ be done? She couldn't risk her own life to protect Christine, not when she had a daughter she needed to look after.

"Alright. I'll speak to him. But we must tell Raoul, he needs to get out of Paris as soon as possible," she insisted. Nadir turned to her instantly.

"Are you _mad_, woman? Raoul is an absolute idiot. He'd go down there, guns blazing, and all that would come out would be a corpse. He'd never leave, he's far too stupid," he snapped.

"But he's in danger!"

"Don't you understand? We're _all_ in danger!" Nadir hissed. "Erik is only waiting for Christine to become a star before he finishes up his business. The moment this opera is over we're all dead, woman!" he snapped.

Madame Giry paled. She then nodded, and rose from her chair.

"I need to speak to Erik. I need to do something," she muttered helplessly, before sweeping out of the apartment.

Nadir sighed as she left. She was too self-righteous to accept that they were all just pawns in Erik's game. She was going to wander into the lion's den without even a shield.

He just hoped she would survive.

* * *

Fifteen years ago, almost to that day, Madame Giry was walking from her apartment in the 15th arrondissement to the theatre where she had been working for as the _prima ballerina_, her young daughter Meganne in a pram that she pushed before her, dressed up in her first little tutu. Marie Giry took her daughter to work every day to be cared for by Aina, the wife of one of the violinists, who took care of the babies that the cast and orchestra could not leave at home.

She smiled to Aina as she passed Meganne to her, pressing a kiss to the cheek of her baby before she was placed in a large play-pen with Christine, Aina's daughter. The two babies instantly began to babble happily to each other.

"You're in early today," Aina commented with a smile, after they had exchanged greetings.

Marie liked Aina. She was a beautiful woman, slender and elegant, with long, glossy rolls of chocolate hair and expressive emerald eyes. She was quite the sweetest woman ever to grace the planet, and was very involved with the theatre, although she had gladly given up a singing career to look after her daughter.

"I'm meeting someone before rehearsals; I'm hoping to convince him to audition for the chorus. He's got the finest voice I've ever heard, but he's stage scared, I think," she answered, pulling her ballet bag from beneath Meganne's pram.

"Well, good luck. Come up here for lunch, I was thinking of taking the girls to the park. It's just them two today, so we shouldn't have our hands full. Bring him, if you'd like," she suggested with a pretty smile. Marie nodded in return.

"Bien sûr. À plus tard, Aina," she replied, before giving Meganne and Christine one last kiss and leaving the room to head downstairs. She put her things in her dressing room before she checked her watch – her guest would be there at any minute. Not thirty seconds had passed before she heard a quiet knock on the door.

"Entrer," she called out, sitting up from her dressing table where she was stitching new ribbons to her ballet slippers. "Erik. It's good to see you," she smiled. The boy nodded, and stepped into the room, looking around uneasily.

He did not look like he fitted into that small dressing room. He was a very handsome young man, tall with an elegant, noble build, and he moved like a panther. His black hair fell long over the side of his face, but it was still clear that he wore a white mask over almost a whole half of his face. She did not know his age or his ethnicity, but she thought him to be in his late teens or early twenties, and she would have guessed he was Romanian or Serbian, perhaps even Hungarian, if it wasn't for the extraordinary shade of his milky blue-grey eyes. He was, all in all, a stunning creature, and yet, with that mask...

"Madame Giry," he murmured with a small nod. She smiled.

"Erik. It's good to see you again. Have you thought about letting me help you?" she questioned. He nodded, and took a seat without being offered. He had very little manners, but, she supposed, it was to be expected.

"I still refuse to become a part of any government identification, if that's what you mean. But you said you had a proposition for me?" he questioned. His voice was silky and smooth, and wrapped around her like a song. She nodded.

"There's a few places going on the chorus. I've heard you sing, Erik, I know how talented you are. And then there could be an opening in a month or so for a new pianist, I'm sure you would excel at that," she listed, pulling out a list of positions that would be opening in the theatre soon. His pale, stormy eyes cast over the words.

"There's a position for a stagehand," he muttered.

"But Erik, surely you can't be looking for something like _that_, with your talent for music I know you would surely –"

"I'm strong, and it offers accommodation in the dormitories. I would like to apply for this position," he said simply, handing the sheet back to her. She blinked in surprise.

"There are other ways to get you accommodation. You cannot demean yourself to such a position," she insisted firmly. He shook his head.

"No. I would like a position as a stagehand. I've been gawped at long enough, and no company will hire a masked performer," he said calmly, his voice firm. She sighed.

"Aina Daaé has a room in her house going for board. I'm sure she'd only ask for a little, and as long as you helped out a little you would still be able to make plenty to support yourself," she suggested. He shook his head once more.

"No. I'm perfectly happy with this position," he decided firmly. She frowned, but nodded.

"Alright. Think about it, and then tell me your decision at lunch. I'm going to be in the park across the road at noon with Aina, we can discuss this more there," she insisted. Erik rolled his eyes, as if to say 'you should just give up, woman', but said nothing, merely nodding, and leaving the room.

Marie was thinking about Erik all that morning. She couldn't understand why he wouldn't want to get a job which catered to his talents! He was one of the most skilled musicians she had ever heard, why would he not want to get a respectable position?

"Perhaps he's modest," Charles commented, as he, Aina and Marie met in the park for lunch that day, the adults with pastries and coffee held in hand, the children content to stumble around on the grass with their tartines.

"He's not modest. He does really understand the concept of manners," Madame Giry assured them.

"He probably has his own reasons for not wanting to perform. We should respect them, it's not fair to push him if he doesn't wish it," Aina said calmly. Madame Giry sighed.

"I know, it's just... oh, look, there he is!" she exclaimed, as she saw the young man strolling across the park to meet them. "Erik. Ça va?" she questioned politely. He shrugged.

"I thought about it, but I would still rather the stagehand position," he informed her, cutting any small talk. Madame Giry couldn't help but look disappointed.

"Erik, please sit down. I'm Aina Daaé, this is my husband Charles. That's our little girl, Christine, and her friend is Meganne, Marie's daughter," Aina introduced politely. Erik turned to the attractive woman, and his eyes lingered over her perhaps half a second longer than was normal for a new acquaintance.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, young man. I hear you dabble with the violin?" Charles smiled. Erik frowned.

"I do a little more than 'dabble'. Your offspring are eating grass," he informed him, glancing to the babies as they giggled behind him. Aina immediately jumped up to stop them from stuffing handfuls of grass into their waiting mouths, but struggled to pick them both up.

"Erik? Would you mind taking Christine?" she questioned. He looked quite affronted.

"Yes."

But nevertheless, he picked up the child when it toddled up to him on unsteady feet, rescuing her from falling and hitting her head on the stone slab at the bottom of the picnic table. He held her rather unsurely by the collar of her romper suit, looking moderately disgusted.

"It doesn't bite, or anything, does it?" he questioned uneasily. Aina laughed as she pulled Meganne up to sit on her hip.

"Of course not, she's the sweetest little thing in the world," she smiled, leaning over and adjusting Erik's hold on her daughter, so she sat with her back against his chest, one hand beneath her and one hand over her stomach, holding her steady. Christine tilted her head back to stare up at him with wide, emerald eyes.

"Can it speak?" he asked, glancing back to the parents, who were chuckling at his obvious sense of awkwardness.

"Yes, of course, but she's only twenty-two months, so nothing monumental," Aina laughed. "I take it you've never held a baby?" she questioned teasingly.

"Of course not. I don't like children," he scowled, handing her over to Charles, looking relieved to be free from her.

"Oh, you'll think differently when you have your own babies," Aina laughed. He winced.

"No. I have no desire to ever procreate. I truly can't stand children," he muttered, before turning to Madame Giry. "I should probably go. You have my contact details, if you should hear anything about the position," he nodded.

"Erik, wait! Would you like to have lunch with us?" she offered. He shook his head.

"No, I am perfectly fine. Good day, Madame Giry, Madame Daaé, Monsieur... infants," he muttered, before nodding, and leaving their group without another word.

Aina couldn't help but laugh when he was gone.

"Oh, he's such a funny boy, he looked so frightened with little Christine! We should have him over for supper one night, Charles. I wonder if he knows anyone in Paris," she commented thoughtfully.

"I doubt it, I've only ever heard him mention one person who I think he considers a friend, but he lives in Iran. He must be lonely; I don't even know where he lives. I just have a postal box when I can leave him notes and messages," she explained.

"Well, we'll have him over next week. We might be able to convince him to look at a different position, or we could offer him our spare room, he's too young to be on his own," Aina decided.

"Just as long as he doesn't have to babysit Christine I think he should find it très agréable," Charles nodded, tickling his little girl's chin so she giggled happily.

"I worry for him. He's a good boy, I think," Madame Giry decided, before conversation changed and the matter was forgotten.

* * *

Madame Giry pushed the memories from her mind as she stepped into box five.

How very wrong she had been.

**A/N: Sorry I've updated late. I've got a lot of very unpleasant drama going on right now. But I'll try harder to get this up in some sort of semblance of routine. **


	27. The Unwanted Proposal

She did not have to wait long for Erik after pulling on the curtain tie in the back corner of the box. After a few minutes she turned around to find him standing behind her. She didn't bother wondering how he had done it; she'd taken to not asking questions when it came to Erik.

"Madame Giry," he murmured, his voice just as cool and ethereal as it had been on the first day they met. She nodded curtly, and tried to retain her resolve.

"Erik. I should have known a bullet couldn't kill you," she replied. He gave a small chuckle.

"Indeed. Now hurry this up, I have somewhere to be," he instructed, leaning against the back wall. Madame Giry took a deep breath.

"I know there would be no point in telling you to leave Christine alone. But I wanted to... apologise," she began. He looked remotely surprised, but for the most part, bored.

"For what, Madame? For the destruction of which life are you referring to?" he questioned almost lazily.

"I didn't know what would happen to Christine after she left you. I didn't know it would hurt her this much," she assured him, almost pleadingly. Erik's eyes flashed darkly.

"I don't want your apologies. Get to the damned point, woman," he growled. She sighed.

"These are her medical reports. She's ill, Erik. Very ill," she informed him, passing over a manila folder. He flicked through it, his eyes passing over charts and soaking up the data with incredible speed.

"Her stamina is strong," he said simply, passing it back to her.

"She's strong, Erik. But I don't think she's strong enough to be able to finish this opera," she explained. He scoffed.

"She will finish it. You underestimate Christine," he snapped. Madame Giry sighed.

"Please, Erik. She needs to gain weight. She needs to get healthy," she insisted.

"I know this, woman."

"And what are you doing about it?" she demanded. "Nadir said you're speaking to her. Surely she would listen to you, Erik. She loves you," she pleaded, moving to step forwards. His cold glare stopped her movements.

"She doesn't know I'm alive. She thinks I'm some sort of angel that has come to guide her," he informed her pointedly. "I'm doing the best I can, but she does not wish to listen to me, so there's little I can do," he snapped, crossing his arms across his chest in a gesture of defence.

"Can't you tell her to eat?"

"I do. She doesn't."

"Well perhaps if you leave her food?" she suggested Erik rolled his eyes.

"She's not a pet kitten, Madame. I don't just leave treats around so she might stumble on them."

"I mean fruit baskets or chocolates; Nadir said you leave her trinkets. It might encourage her to eat more," she suggested almost desperately.

"Is this truly about Christine's health, or is this about the fact that you're losing control over her, Madame? Are you more upset that she's too thin, or that she doesn't want to do as you wish because she might answer to someone else now?" he demanded finally, his voice firm with irritation.

Madame Giry did not answer, only lowered her eyes, her pride too much to let him see her defeat.

"I thought that was the case. Get out, for goodness sakes. She doesn't need you," he snapped.

She tore from the room in anger and humiliation. Part of her _had_ been regretting the fact that she could no longer instruct Christine. It was like she was drifting away more and more each day, and she couldn't stand to see it. Erik was right.

She just hoped that he was as genuinely concerned for her health as she was.

* * *

"If you keep doing this, you'll only make me fat," Christine commented when she stepped into her dressing room. Her angel chuckled.

'_I very much doubt it. We would need a few more baskets before we got to that point_,' he replied teasingly, as she stepped over to her dressing table. For the past few days there had been a large, decadent basket filled with pastries, baked goods or chocolate, all addressed to her from her angel. She had been eating what she could of them, but most of it she shared amongst the cast and ballet corps. Today the basket was full of sugared and candied fruits, a treat she remembered from her childhood days. She plucked a peach out and felt the delicious crackle of her teeth against it with a smile.

"You certainly know my tastes, angel," she murmured, her smile growing into a grin.

'_I like to think I can keep you satisfied, my dear_,' he replied. She shivered with the double meaning of his words, and saved herself from having to think of a reply that wasn't stuttered by taking another bite of the peach. Her angel chuckled at her blush.

Christine was for one glad that everyone had stopped badgering her on a constant basis about her weight, or lack thereof. No one but her angel understood that she was devoted completely to the music, and food came second. She had bought just the day before a new electric piano for her room in Madame Giry's apartment so she could practise in the mornings and evenings. As each day passed she altered her routine slightly to fit in the most music practise possible. It was the most wonderful distraction from her pain – she still cried at night and she still suffered horrible dreams that made her blood run cold, but she had her angel to come to her and kiss those screams and terrors away. Although those around her worried more and more, she had never felt stronger.

Except, of course, when she was with Erik. Nothing could make up for that.

'_Are you nervous for tonight's gala, my dear_?' the voice asked her when she did not reply.

"Excited, more like. I get to sing for you again," she replied with a smile.

'_Good. I know you will be perfect, angel. Your success is my triumph,_' he said proudly. She was filled with a warm sense of joy at that comment.

"I would do anything to please you, you know. You've done so much for me, I thought I would never be able to breathe without Erik, I thought I would always be in agony. But you make it bearable," she replied eagerly. She could almost feel her angel smiling.

'_Good girl. Now no more talking, you must eat and rest your voice for tonight,_' he instructed gently.

Erik watched her sit herself down at the dressing table and examine the basket with glee. She was smiling. Her heart was not in it, but... she was smiling.

It was bittersweet to him. On one hand, he was glad that she seemed to be healing, while on the other, he knew that if she was able to survive his loss then he would have no reason to stay. He was only her 'angel of music' to allow her to triumph and move on, not to indulge his own sick pleasures. He made the decision. After opening night, if it looked like she was going to be able to handle life without him, he would leave her for good.

He knew it was for the best, but he couldn't help but wish he loved her less so he would have the chance to be able to love her more.

* * *

Raoul couldn't help but smirk as he caught his reflection in his bedroom mirror. He looked rather smart in his tuxedo, his lengthy hair was brushed back perfectly and there was not a single dull button or stray thread on his entire person. He was the kind of man Christine would be proud of.

Instinctively when his mind shifted to Christine his hand moved to his jacket pocket, where he felt the lump of the ring box, straight from Cartier. He couldn't help but slip it out to examine the priceless jewel once more. A stunning band of platinum covered in dozens of small diamonds with a large white diamond in the centre. It would look magnificent on Christine's beautiful finger. He had been holding it on him for weeks, but now the time was ripe. Tonight he would ask her to be his wife.

He was almost giddy with the thought of it. After all, it had been months; she _must_ have gotten over Erik by now! He was thinking of waiting a little longer for her eighteenth birthday – a month or two after the opening of _Don Juan Triumphant_, but he simply could not stand it any longer. He needed to make her his bride as soon as possible!

From the moment the evening began he could tell it would be perfect. The gala was alive and well when he arrived fashionably late, immediately attracting the attention of all assembled, the _crème de la crème _of French society. But he cared nothing for them; he strode purposely over to the managers, who were practically falling over themselves to talk business with him.

"Yes, yes, a lovely set up you have here this evening," he complimented, as Firmin began to babble about an extended performance period.

"We are most grateful for your interest in our little opera, Victome," André assured him with a greedy glimmer in his owlish eyes. Raoul smirked.

"Well, it's all for the lady. Speaking of whom, have you seen Christine?" he questioned, glancing around the brightly lit ballroom.

"She's due to perform any minute now, actually. She'll be doing an aria from Catalani's _La Wally_," André replied. No sooner were the words out of his mouth before the lighting fell and a spotlight moved to a curtained platform beneath the two-way grand staircase, and some dark strings began to play.

Christine stepped out, a vision in a silky black ball gown, her hair falling over her shoulders in a picture of grace and beauty. Raoul almost felt his heart stop when she began to sing – she sounded so beautiful, and yet so sad! He was filled with a sense of righteousness. He would be the one to bring her joy very soon. No longer would she weep for the loss of that hell-spawned demon, she would be his and his alone for all eternity.

Raoul was not the only person gazing on Christine with pride swelling in their heart. Erik watched from behind a statue as his angel sang those words with passion. He translated them in his head as she sang... "_The mountains are calling me, alas! I now must leave thee!  
And nevermore, and nevermore shall mine eyes fondly behold thee!  
Home that I love so dearly, farewell, farewell!"_

She sounded perfect. She _was_ perfect. There was more he could teach her, of course, but she was already destined to be a star. He could tell from the expressions of adoration she received from her audience who all watched in wonder.

When the song had finished he smiled and slipped away back into the bowels of the theatre. He would leave her to the festivities, he would leave her to dance and laugh and chat and have praises heaped on her from every single guest in that room. It was no longer his place to be the one kissing and holding her when she triumphed.

So he sat in the passageway behind the mirror of her dressing room, waiting for her to return, reliving he performance in his mind with a soft smile. His little angel had learnt so much over the past few months. She was quite the diva already, and he was certain after the first season she would be famed all over the world. It gave him comfort to think that she would always have the adoration from the rest of the world where he could not give her his.

He sat up suddenly with a frown when he heard the door to her dressing room open. Surely the gala was not finished already, was it? He smirked. She had probably come to hear his praise for her performance. Just as he was about to throw his voice to whisper a gentle 'bravo' in her ear, he realised that Christine was not alone.

"Raoul, please. There's nothing you can't say to me somewhere else, at some other time," she insisted firmly, glancing around the room as if uneasy. Erik scowled as he saw that boy pulling on her arm, leading her down to the chaise.

"I wanted to talk to you alone. I had to get you away from all your admirers," he smiled. Erik wanted to throw up, the sight was that sickening. Christine blushed.

"Please, Raoul, we must be careful. You never know who is listening," she said as calmly as she could, but she still looked nervous and wary. Raoul laughed.

"Christine, you're too shy! I wanted to talk to you about something," he said, reaching for her hands. She tried to pull away, but he held them tightly. "Now, I know this past year has been very hard for you. But I want you to know that you don't have to suffer this alone. There are others here who wish to care for you," he began. She gave a slightly pained smile.

"Thank you, Raoul. It's good to know," she replied, before making a move to leave. He once more held her back.

"Christine, you're too fidgety. Now you must listen. I have been patient. Very patient. I waited for you to overcome your experience for months, but now I feel we must make this secure. After all, it won't do for you to perform the first season as a single woman. I don't want people to think I'm marrying you only for your fame. I'm not saying we marry right away, but I'd like it if we could at least announce our engagement before the opening night of _Don Juan Triumphant_," he stated, as if it were nothing more than a business proposition. Erik almost snarled in disgust.

"_What_ engagement? Raoul, we aren't –"

It was here that he produced the ring. She swallowed nervously as he took her hand and forced it on. Erik could tell from his position behind the mirror that she thought it was gaudy and tasteless. It reminded him of the ring he had given her himself, and of the promises that had come with it. Christine's eyes had been filled with joy, then. They were only filled with confusion and disgust now.

"R – Raoul, I don't know what to say," she muttered, her voice measured, but it was clear she was straining to hold back anger.

"Say you love me every waking moment. Say you need me with you now and always, say you love me, Christine, that's all I ask of you," he practically begged, but there was a surety in his voice that made it clear he was certain of her agreement.

"Raoul, I know you're trying to help me, but I just don't –"

"I love you, Christine. I love you and I want to be the one that looks after you," he insisted firmly, clutching tighter at her hands. "I want to come home every evening to see you, to eat with you, to hear you sing our children to sleep, I want you to be my wife, Christine. Please, say yes and we can forget every horrible thing that's happened over these past months," he practically commanded, pressing kisses to her knuckles, which were clasped tightly in his hands.

"But I'm only seventeen, and the opera hasn't even opened yet!" she objected.

"That doesn't matter, Ana was seventeen when she married my brother! Christine, we've been the best of friends for years, but we both know that we've always wanted more," he insisted, pushing forwards and pressing his lips against hers. Christine struggled to pull away, but his hands moved to hold her arms tightly and he had her pinned against the back of the chaise. He pulled away with a smile. "See? Don't tell me you don't feel that," he smirked.

Christine's eyes flashed and she looked about ready to scream at him before a deep voice rumbled through the room.

'_Insolent boy, you slave to fashion, how dare you bask in the glory of MY triumph?_' Erik's voice cried furiously, cracking like lightning through the dressing room. Raoul whimpered and sunk back into the chaise, looking around wildly and clutching to Christine.

"Wh – what is that?" Raoul stammered fearfully, turning to her with wide, afraid eyes.

"The angel of music, Raoul. Remember how my mother used to tell us he'd come one day? Don't be afraid, he won't hurt you," she assured him, pitying his terrified expression.

'_Oh, I won't hurt him, will I? Boy, you will know vengeance like no one has known it before. You will beg for death before I am halfway finished with you!_' Erik roared. Raoul gave another whimper.

"C – Christine, we must get out," he cried softly, clutching onto her with fear. She almost wanted to roll her eyes. "It's not your angel of music, it's _him_, it's his ghost, he's come back to get revenge!" he continued fearfully.

'_That's right, boy. You're going to pay for your sins. So start running now,_' he commanded curtly. Raoul did not wait to ensure Christine's safety before he rushed from the room.

Christine couldn't help but laugh as he left. He proved himself to be quite pathetic with that little display.

"That was quite mean of you, you know. I was going to tell him to leave me alone," she sighed, wiping her eyes. Her angle chuckled.

'_He's had it coming. Are you alright?_' he questioned with sudden concern. She shrugged and gave a bitter smile.

"Raoul and I used to be friends. But I can't understand why, not anymore," she muttered quietly.

'_You're not going to accept his proposals, then?_' he enquired dryly. She scoffed.

"Not anytime soon, I can assure you," she practically spat, taking off the ring and putting it back in the box with a long, slow sigh. She leant back on the chaise.

'_You sang beautifully tonight, my dear. Half the audience was weeping – you should be proud,' _he complimented. She gave a soft smile.

"It's a beautiful song, and I've been taught well. That's all there is to it," she shrugged simply, plucking a sugared orange slice from the basket that had been placed in there earlier that day.

'_That is not true. You have a gift, and you have worked hard to achieve your levels of skill. You should be more excited, child._'

"It's difficult to be excited. I just – I want this opera to come. I want to sing Erik's music," she decided firmly.

'_And what happens then?_' he questioned, after a short pause. She shrugged.

"There will be no husband and children for me, I can say that for sure," she muttered quietly.

Erik did not reply for a few moments. He stopped himself from saying something rather stupid, before mumbling out a simple '_you had best be off to your party_'. She said nothing before leaving the room.

Erik slumped against the wall of the passageway behind her mirror. He had been filled with a sense of righteous jealousy when he saw Raoul propose to _his_ Christine. It was meant to be _him_ proposing, it was meant to be _them_ spending the rest of their days together, _he_ was the one who was meant to come home, share meals with her and hear her sing their children to sleep.

He chuckled at his own stupidity. He was being ridiculous. He didn't believe in marriage and he didn't like children. All he wanted was Christine, pure and simple.

He had half a mind not to go to her that night. He wasn't sure if he could bear it, but eventually he found himself sitting on the end of her bed, and then sliding beneath the sheets when she began to cry out in terror.

He was unable to leave her. He was bound.

And he had never been more terrified of any one concept.

* * *

"Is there something you haven't been telling me?" Raoul demanded through gritted teeth, tugging André and Firmin away from the party after he had run from Christine's room. Both men instantly paled.

"Oh God. I begged Khan not to –"

"We knew he was going to say something eventually, but –"

"- say anything, I _pleaded_, 'It would do no good', I said, but he –"

"- I was hoping he might have a _bit_ of decency, can't expect much from a –"

"- wouldn't listen, always going on about that damned girl and –"

"- foreigner, he's no good, he's only there to watch over –"

"- _him_."

"- _her_."

Raoul slammed the door to their office shut as he tossed them in there.

"He's going to kill me. His damned ghost is back and he's going to kill me, and you two knew. I just spoke to Madame Giry, she _told_ me that you knew," he snapped angrily, his eyes alight with anger. André and Firmin both swallowed nervously.

"Madame Giry knows?" André muttered weakly, glancing to his companion.

"She must. She always dealt with him in the past, she must have known."

"Can we trust her?"

"She's a good woman, messieurs, at least_ she_ is capable of honesty!" Raoul growled, beginning to pace. "We must get her out of Paris," he decided.

"No!" both managers objected frantically. Raoul raised a brow.

"Gentlemen, are you suggesting _money_ is more important than Christine?" he demanded curtly.

"The Phantom won't hurt her. We know he won't. And he'll only hurt _you_ if you interfere with Christine. That's all he cares about, _her_," André insisted firmly.

"You don't need to be afraid, Vicomte, please. We've dealt with him before. It's best just to do as he says and you will be safe," Firmin almost begged.

"Why should I trust you?" Raoul snapped. They both sighed.

"We both want the girl alive, and we both want _him_ gone. We have mutual interests, Vicomte. _After_ the season we make our move," André whispered, stepping forth. Raoul scowled.

"What do you mean?" he demanded. The two managers shared a nervous glance.

"We'll call you with more details, but we cannot discuss things here. You never know who might be listening," André murmured, ushering him from the office. "Now go, and we will discuss this later. Enjoy the evening, and don't do anything stupid. We both have a lot invested in this," he instructed. Raoul was gone in a minute.

André sighed as he turned back to Firmin.

"Well? What are we going to do?" Firmin demanded angrily. André shrugged.

"How do _I_ know? But we can't let de Chagny take away his investments just to play the sanctimonious lover," he said. "It's all well and good for him to pretend he has Christine's best interests at heart, he's been using her to increase his fortunes from the start," he added pointedly.

"André, so are –"

"I _know_ we're exploiting her too, but we're not engaged to the girl!" he hissed, beginning to pace.

"We can't talk about it here. Come to my house for breakfast tomorrow, André, and we will discuss what we're to do with the boy. Now come along, we have a party to attend," Firmin said promptly, leading his partner out of the room, but not after casting one last unsure glance around the office.

They could not afford to take any risks.

* * *

"Good morning, Madame Firmin. I trust your husband is in?" André questioned the pretty woman who answered the door. He knew full well that it wasn't Madame Firmin – she still had on her costume makeup from the night before and he recognised her as one of the ballet rats, but she giggled excitedly with the thought, and pulled the door wide open to allow him entry into the grand townhouse. André marched straight into the breakfast room, where his partner was sitting down with his toast and coffee.

"Ah, André. Good. We need to know the _battle plan_ before we speak to the Vicomte," Firmin said excitedly, calling in the maid to bring a plate of breakfast. "I'm concerned that he's going to storm down beneath the theatre with a gun and attempt to settle it man to man. We would lose a great deal of money if the Vicomte died," he added with a small chuckle.

"End of the season we're going to be rid of this ghost, Firmin. The Vicomte will be only too happy to help us – in seven months the Phantom will be dead," André decided firmly. Firmin frowned with suspicion.

"And how exactly will –"

"We need to enlist the Vicomte's help, of course, but after the closing gala for _Don Juan Triumphant_ I suggest we finish him off with a bang. We destroy his underground lair, and we make sure he gets it too," he continued, his eyes flashing with determination.

"But if we destroy his lair, won't that bring down the theatre, too?" Firmin frowned.

"Of course not, if we do it well enough. That lair doesn't support the theatre – _he_ built it. If we can ensure he's down there –"

"How on _earth_ do we do that?" Firmin questioned with a frown, before realisation suddenly dawned on him. "Oh god. The girl," he murmured incredulously. "No, she's worth too much too us. We can't do it," he insisted firmly.

"I'm not suggesting we use the girl, I'm suggesting we make him _think _we're using the girl. There are ways around this, you know. We can trick the Phantom at his own game," he hissed. Firmin slowly nodded.

"Alright, so we stage something on the gala to mark the end of the production and we kill the Phantom? Can it really be that simple?" he questioned incredulously.

"The best plans always are. Now I'll leave you with your _companion_ and see you in the office," André said firmly, rising from his chair and leaving the apartment without another word.

Firmin stared at his coffee.

He had a suspicion it wasn't going to be as simple as his partner thought.

"Oh Monsieur _Manager..._ come back to bed?" came a playful purr from behind as the ballet rat wrapped her long, slender arms around his neck, blonde curls falling over his eyes. He smirked.

He would think about it at another time. He was busy now.

**A/N: Hmm, so Erik has been discovered by Raoul. But when will he be discovered by Christine? Lots of drama coming up, peeps. This is just the beginning.**


	28. The Debut

In an attempt to avoid Raoul Christine spent almost every moment she could throwing herself into rehearsals and training. She focused almost all her time in the theatre, finishing so late that Raoul had no choice but to go have dinner without her, which was exactly what she wished for.

And it wasn't like she didn't have work to do. With the opening night looming ever nearer she felt her nerves begin to weaken. Her nightmares were getting worse, too, a combination of the still-raw anguish of Erik's death and her fear of disappointing him.

But when she began to see speculation about her relationship with Raoul – each paper boasting a different story about why she didn't wear an engagement ring when they were so obviously going to be married. She found it disgusting that Raoul had spoken to reporters about how much 'he and his fiancée were looking forward to the upcoming production'. She felt used and betrayed, but she knew it was her own fault – she made it her mission to avoid speaking to Raoul, which meant he still assumed she had accepted his proposals.

But she forgot those problems when she sang. When she sang Erik's music, the only thing that mattered was _Erik, _but therein lied the problem – with every note she sang she couldn't help but be reminded of the agony of his death. It was almost too much to be a part of his opera, to know he would never hear her sing again.

She knew others were concerned for her. Nadir made it his job to constantly chastise her for still not putting on weight and for still not being able to go through the night without crying out for a dead man, as if it were _her_ fault. She had taken to asking him more questions about Erik every day. As she progressed with Erik's opera her need to know more about him grew into a hunger that could not be satiated by Nadir's 'enough of that, you must forget him'.

She felt distanced from everyone, even her angel of music. Meg still refused to speak to her – she didn't understand why, she couldn't believe it was jealousy, as her angel insisted, and she began to worry she had perhaps offended her. So she began to retreat when she was back at Madame Giry's apartment, making sure she did not intrude on Meg's life. After all, _she_ had invaded her home, not the other way round. Meg had every right to feel angry and hurt. So, she began to feel distanced from Madame Giry. And when Nadir did not tell her all she wanted to know about Erik, she grew distanced from him, too. She saw Raoul only very occasionally, and spent most of her time trying to convince him that she was not his fiancée, but she eventually came to the conclusion that he would not listen to her, no matter what she said.

But it didn't matter, because when the opening night of Erik's opera was over, she was going to be over too. She had decided. She would go for a walk after the show and then let the Seine wash away her pain. She would go in the dark and perhaps she would be able to feel her angel by her side, like she did in the black of the night when he loved her. She would grip his hand and they would both plummet into the icy depths, and then the pain and hurt would stop. It would be over, _finally_.

She gave a relieved sigh at the thought as she brushed her hair back to prepare herself for the dress rehearsal. Opening night was in only a few days, but it felt like years away. It felt like _years_ since she had lost Erik, but soon... soon it would be over.

'_What are you singing?_' her angel questioned softly. She smiled to hear his voice.

"I'm humming. Very different," she corrected him. She heard him chuckle, and then the lights flickered, before her room was enveloped in complete darkness. She trembled. This had been happing quite often of late, and it could only mean –

She gave a soft sigh when she felt the brush run through her long dark curls, seemingly of its own accord. As the opening night came closer, her angel began to show himself in more ways that she could feel, rather than just hear. It made her believe that when she stepped into the Seine she would be able to feel him with her, and perhaps see him standing beside her.

'_Then hum. Hum for me, my child_,' he requested, in his ghostly, ethereal voice which seemed to be all around yet within her at the same time. She began to hum a soft, sweet and sad melody for him. '_Beautiful. Did you write this?_' he asked, to which she nodded. She trembled when she felt icy cold hands run over her jaw, her neck, her chest – she blushed violently as they passed over her breasts and then down to her sides. '_Good, my angel. You are learning quickly. Sing for me, please_,' he begged of her softly. She trembled, and tried to turn into his embrace, but when she did, he was not there. She felt her heart sink in disappointment until she could feel those icy cold fingers trailing up the length of her leg.

"I will sing for you, but not tonight. Not that song. Will you sing for me?" she questioned hopefully. He chuckled.

'_Bien sûr, my dear, but I will hold you to that promise_,' he murmured teasingly.

She smiled and reclined back in the chair before her dressing table as she continued to feel his cold hands trail over her body.

'_The day starts, the day ends, time crawls by,  
Night steals in, pacing the floor...  
The moments creep, yet I can't bear to sleep,_

_Till I hear you sing_...'

She trembled as his voice echoed around her, and she felt his fingers trail through her long dark hair.

'_And weeks pass, and months pass, seasons fly,  
Still you don't walk through the door...  
And in a haze I count the silent days,  
Till I hear you sing, once more..._

_And sometimes at night time, I dream that you are there,  
But wake holding nothing but the empty air...  
And years come, and years go time runs dry,  
Still I ache down to the core!  
My broken soul can't be alive and whole,  
Till I hear you sing once more..._'

She felt the intensity of both his words and his presence increase as the song progressed. It was intoxicating.

'_And music, your music, it teases in my ear,  
I turn and it fades away and you're not here!  
Let hope pass, let dreams pass, let them die!  
Without you what are they for?  
I always feel no more than halfway real,  
Till I hear you sing, once more_!'

She felt a single tear roll down her cheek.

"Angel, that is beautiful," she murmured. He chuckled against the hair at the nape of her neck, his hands still sliding down the length of her arm.

'_Not as beautiful as you are, my dear_,' he replied softly. '_But it's true. I only feel real when you sing for me. Without you I am simply not here,_' he continued. She turned to meet his lips, but felt nothing.

"I will sing my song for you, after opening night. Then we can sing together and nothing else will matter," she decided firmly. She heard him give a small, dry chuckle.

'_But after opening night, it will all be over_,' he replied gently. She bit against her bottom lip.

"Well, maybe... or maybe it could just begin again," she said quietly. Before she could continue she felt cool lips pressing against her own frantically, and she reached for his shoulders. He felt... so real, and yet she knew he couldn't be. He was her angel, but when he came to her like this – he was Erik. He was an Erik she could only touch and feel in her dreams, and she must have nodded to sleep as her angel sung to her.

But she didn't care, because in that very moment, she had Erik, and that was all that mattered.

* * *

Erik slipped out of Christine's dressing room and stood behind the mirror, desperately wishing he could go back to that beautiful creature who now slept on the chaise, her costume swamping her in seemingly endless folds of silk and satin. He did not wait to watch her awake and restore herself to her usual state of perfection before her dress rehearsal; he slipped through the passageways, trying not to feel too disgusted with himself. As opening night drew nearer he couldn't help but abuse his place as her 'angel'. He felt bitter with the realisation that soon he would be unable to touch her at all. Soon he would be gone, and she would be without him.

He had thought, considering how much he had been struggling to keep hold of his emotions over the past few months, that finally leaving her would be almost easy. But he had never before broken a promise, and he didn't think he could do it to her. His mind flashed back to that morning when they were separated, the promises he had made, swearing he would never be parted from her. He gave a bitter scoff at his own stupidity. He should never have promised that – he should have only promised that he would always do what was best for her, because leaving her was for the best. If he left her she would become the star he wanted her to be. If he stayed... she would continue to wither away into nothing.

He pushed those thoughts from his mind as he slipped into Box Five to watch the dress rehearsal for his opera. It had to be perfect. Absolutely perfect.

* * *

"Gentlemen. You are telling me that this... _ghost_ is not a ghost, and is actually Erik Danté, come back from the dead, now obsessed with turning Christine into his Aminta?"

Raoul's question cut across his stylish front parlour in his Parisian apartment, almost making the two men before him tremble.

"We – We didn't think you needed to know, you see, but we've been discussing it a – and we think it's time we got it out in the open," André explained timidly. Raoul was almost radiating anger.

"Opening night is _tonight_! We could have gotten him tonight, but you two _idiots_ care too much for your damned money to include me in things that concern not only _my_ life, but the life of my fiancée!" he roared. Both men trembled.

"We kn – knew if we told you that you'd run down there, guns blazing, and this must be done p – properly," Firmin practically squeaked. Raoul growled angrily and turned away from the men, kicking a lump of wood by his fireplace.

"Well what's the plan, then?" he demanded.

"We trap the Phantom on the night of the gala to celebrate the end of _Don Juan Triumphant_. It has to be done carefully, but we can destroy his lair without destroying the foundations of the theatre. It will take several months, but... but it will be worth it, monsieur," André insisted. Raoul nodded tersely.

"Does she know? Does Christine know?" he barked, his back still turned.

"The foreigner seems to think she doesn't, as does Madame Giry. He's masking as some sort of 'angel of music', he's pretending to be her father or _him_ as a ghost, something ridiculous. If she weren't so ill I'd think she were a little dim, to be perfectly honest," Firmin muttered beneath his breath.

"She is _not_ dim! Christine is the most beautiful, intelligent, talented creature in all of Paris and I will _not_ let that monster take her away again!" Raoul cried angrily, turning round suddenly, his eyes full of fire.

"He has a dangerous hold over her, monsieur. That's why she's been resisting you," André interjected nervously. Raoul glared at him.

"She has _not_ been resisting me; she's just busy with rehearsals. That's all," he snapped, before beginning to pace. "Alright, we'll do it. We'll set it up so that when _Don Juan _closes, so shall Erik's reign of terror. Now, gentlemen, get out, I have an opera to dress for," he growled finally.

The two managers didn't have to be told twice as they scampered from the apartment. They dared not speak till they were outside and on their way back to the opera house, dusk beginning to settle.

"We should have told him earlier."

"You were the one who said not to!" Firmin hissed.

"Shut up. We just need to keep an eye on him," André snapped, rolling his eyes.

"You think he'll try something stupid?" he questioned with a raised brow.

André did not respond. He was deep in thought.

But the truth was he _did_ think Raoul de Chagny would do something very stupid. If not on the opening night, then on the closing. They had to plan things perfectly to ensure nothing would go wrong, not even the Vicomte.

He pushed those thoughts from his mind as they approached the opera.

There were other things at hand.

* * *

"You're being very foolish, Erik."

Erik turned his head with a raised brow. He sneered immediately, and gripped the side of the door he was clinging on as he watched the cast prepare for their first performance, hidden away in the shadows.

"I'm in no mood to chat about my failings, Madame Giry. And you seem to forget that I am by no means pleased with you," he replied curtly, sending her a fierce glare before turning immediately back to the stage. It only took Madame Giry a moment to discover the object of his attention – Christine was sitting backstage on a battered stool; a small frown on her pallid face as she stared at nothing in particular, cast bustling around her. She was probably deep in thought about the performance she had to give at the party in just an hour to celebrate the opening of the new production.

"Can I just ask what your intentions are? Will you continue this game for the rest of your life?" she questioned with concern, stepping forwards. She gently placed a hand upon his arm. He recoiled sharply, and she sighed. "The girl is hurting, Erik. I was wrong, I can admit that – but it would be a very foolish mistake to keep up this ruse. I'm worried about her," she said softly.

"You have no right to be concerned for Christine. You have no claim over her. She doesn't need you – she doesn't need any of you. She's the only reason this theatre is still standing," he snapped curtly, still refusing to turn. Madame Giry gave a small, quiet release of breath and turned from him sadly.

"By ignoring my question, Erik, you've as good as answered it. So I hope you leave her – and I mean _truly_ leave her," she said suddenly, stopping her walk. "I hope you leave Paris and never come back, I hope she never has to look over her shoulder in hope of seeing your 'angel', I hope she can stop screaming at night and I hope she loves someone else who will treat her more kindly," she continued, swallowing almost nervously.

She felt terrified, approaching this young man who had the power and will to kill her in only a few seconds. But all those nights of screams and tears had given her strength.

"In some ways, I wish you had really died all those months ago. Because that way she would be free. She's more a prisoner _now_ than she was when you kidnapped her," she practically whispered, but from the tremble of Erik's shoulders, she knew he had heard. "She'll be singing tonight at the opening gala, before your opera opens. You know she composes now? I suppose it's all she has left of you," she muttered coolly.

"You go too far, woman," Erik growled. His voice sounded strained, his fist clenched by his side.

"I'm glad you hate me, Erik. I tried to be kind to you when you were young, but now that I've seen Christine... I know it is far better to be hated than loved by you. I could only ever die once by your lasso. She dies with every note of every bar of every song of your damned opera," she snapped finally, turning heel and storming out of the theatre wings.

Madame Giry felt strangely... alive. It gave her strength to tell Erik the truth – because he needed to hear it. But she knew by letting it slip that the song Christine would sing that night would be of her own composition, he would be certain to attend.

He wouldn't miss a show from his pupil for anything.

* * *

"You look _very_ beautiful tonight, Christine!" gushed Capucine, one of the young makeup artists, as she stepped back. Christine forced a weak smile as she took in her appearance. Capucine had done a good job with the blush; it almost looked like she had some colour in her appearance once again! But with her pale skin and eerily glassy eyes she looked like a painted porcelain doll with her perfectly styled chocolate hair, pulled, teased and sprayed into a beautiful coiffed bun. Her dress was stunning, as always, long folds of champagne silk and white lace, and the gift Raoul had just sent over, a spectacular diamond necklace and bracelet, adorning her as if she were a Christmas tree.

She personally felt she looked like a lie.

"Thank you, Capucine. You did wonderfully," she smiled, or rather grimaced, before rising to stand. "I think I'm going to sit in my dressing room for a few minutes, you know, to warm up," she decided. The young redhead woman nodded eagerly.

"Of course, Christine. I had better go find La Carlotta, after all. She'll want me to help make her look pretty, if that's possible," she giggled, before bouncing off through the dressing room wings of the backstage theatre. Christine almost wished she hadn't sent her away, when she felt herself tremble, but she needed some time with her angel before she had to sing.

The wings were strangely quiet. She was so used to the hustle and bustle it was quite eerie. She headed through the halls quickly to her private dressing room, unlocking the musky pink door and slipping in as quietly as she could, flicking on the lights as she went.

"Angel?" she questioned softly, but heard not response. She looked around, she was quite alone. The room was filled with roses from Raoul or cast members or admirers – white ones, pink ones, red ones, but she was looking for one single red rose. She wanted to see if her angel had left her another like the one he had many months ago.

She dashed immediately to the dresser and pushed past the vases and boxes of chocolate frantically. Nothing. No scarlet rose, no black ribbon, nothing. She sniffled slightly and tried not to be too disappointed. She would see him that night, anyway. After that night she would see him forever. She turned to leave the room – stopping when a flash of black caught her eye.

It wasn't a black ribbon. She choked back a sob as she reached for the small black velvet box and pulled it open. She took the note that fluttered from it first with quivering fingers. It was in Nadir's handwriting.

_Dear Christine,_

_I can only imagine how hard this is for you. I return this not for him but for you. I was wrong to take it, thinking it would help you move on. I want you to keep this as a reminder for the man who is gone now – I want you to use it to help you accept he is no longer here. Not to honour the vow attached to it, but to acknowledge the passing of what is dead. I'm sure you will be amazing tonight, and I have appreciated our time together. I know you will be wonderful not only tonight, but for the rest of your career. The inscription of this ring should no longer be a testament from Erik but an epitaph __**for**__ Erik. This is what he wanted to teach you – not that love between one man and one woman will last forever, but that even after his death, you can still love another. So I hope you find that strength._

'_Bear all things. Believe all things. Hope in all things. Endure all things. Love never dies.'_

_-Nadir_

She could help but cry out as if wounded. She gave a desperate wail and crumpled to the floor. It was as if it was the last knife to her chest, and it had dug deep enough to pull open the wounds of Erik's death. She didn't want a damn ring – she wanted, more than anything else in the world, for that letter to be from Erik. She wanted to go back to the castle and never to leave, she wanted him to be there with her every morning, noon and night and she didn't want any damn verses to try to make her hope! There was _nothing_ without Erik, why couldn't the rest of the world understand?

She thought she had been able to handle to handle Erik's loss, when she had her angel with her. But she hadn't heard from him, or felt him in days, and she was angry, not only with him, but with the whole world. And why did they not weep as if their lives had been capsized? Didn't they understand Erik was _gone_? Didn't they know that there was an empty space in the world – in her _heart_, that had once been filled by the greatest musician known to man? She wanted the whole world the cry out with pain and devastation at his loss. She wanted to leave the world in the worst possible way but not without someone else hurting because Erik was gone, and now, so was her angel.

"Mademoiselle Christine? Your song is in five minutes," came a call from outside her dressing room. She managed to make out some sort of sound to acknowledge the statement before pulling herself to her feet. She picked up the box to look at the ring once more. With one last sniffle she slid it onto the ring finger of her left hand. She didn't care if people speculated – they would probably think it was Raoul's anyway. But she didn't care. She would wear it till the day she died. It glittered with familiarity and comfort.

She fixed her makeup and left the room in silence. She would sing for Erik. She would sing for him and it didn't matter if he couldn't hear her words were he was – she would still sing for _him_. And then, when it was over, she and her angel would just slip away into the cool waters of the Seine, where nothing could hurt her ever again.

* * *

Erik kissed the note softly as he signed it. He felt a little guilty, if he were honest, to forge Nadir's handwriting – but Madame Giry was right. He had to end it. He had to let her move on. It had gone on long enough.

He would leave, but only after seeing her sing. It might even be enough for him to hear her song. He'd known that she had composed, when she had no sheet music she wrote her own songs, but did she give them words? He knew he should leave Paris and leave her be, but he just needed to see her once more. He needed to hear her once more, and after all the years he had spent working on _Don Juan Triumphant_, he owed it to her and to himself to watch that opera.

He glanced at the clock above the mantle in his underground lair. It was covered in dust, but he could still read the time. He was surprised it even worked after all those years, but he had learnt not to be surprised by the theatre early in the game. He finished dressing and headed through the tunnels to the main gallery in silence, the sound of babbling, dreary guests growing from a distant echo to a dull roar before he finally slipped out from behind a marble pillar into the ballroom.

It was very full. There were a few hundred people already, all dressed from head to toe in gaudy, over-priced costume jewellery. He moved about the base of the dome ceiling to find a good place to watch, casting his eyes over those assembled. He ignored Madame Giry and that bratty blonde, the managers, even Raoul as he sunk into the shadows and waited.

He didn't have to wait long before he heard the unmistakable sound of a piano fill the room, strings following after the first bar, swirling and swelling as the audience quickly drew to a hush.

She appeared like an angelic vision on a small platform beneath the grand staircase, the pianist and violinist hidden along on the side. His ears sharpened instantly. It sounded... familiar. It was that song she had been humming in her dressing when he last came to her as her angel! A hushed reverie overcame the crowd – they were transfixed when an obnoxious spotlight was centred on her (Raoul's work, no doubt), causing her jewels to sparkle like stars in the night sky. She looked... _sad_.

"_Who knows when love begins?  
Who knows what makes it start?  
One day it's simply there, alive inside in your heart  
It slips into your thoughts, it infiltrates your soul,  
It takes you by surprise, then seizes full control..."_

He swallowed as she began to sing. It was going to be harder than he had imagined to leave at the end of that night. She sounded just as wonderful as ever, only now her voice was rich with honesty and emotion that he didn't hear in the mindless songs the managers had forced down her throat, like she were nothing but an operatic juke-box. Her sadness was agony to _him_, but it made the sweetest music he had ever heard.

"_Try to deny it, and try to protest,  
But love won't let you go, once you've been possessed  
Love never dies, love never falters,  
Once it has spoken, love is yours  
Love never fades, love never alters,  
Hearts may get broken, love endures  
Hearts may get broken, love endures..._"

"Oh, Christine..." he murmured quietly, wishing he could just step up to her and kiss away those tears which were slowly forming in her emerald eyes. She sung with impeccable pitch and expression, staring up into the spotlight as if she could see her 'angel of music' peering down at her from the heavens. And with the emotion she was putting into those words, it was almost as if she thought she was.

"_And soon as you submit, surrender flesh and bone,  
That love takes on a life much bigger than your own  
It uses you at whim and drives you to despair  
And forces you to feel more joy than you can bear  
Love gives you pleasure, and love brings you pain,  
And yet, when both are gone, love will still remain_,"

"That's my girl. That's my wonderful, beautiful little girl," he muttered to himself with a small smile as she sang with more fervour. She was almost... _emphatic_ in the way she sang, the way she clenched her first and look out at the audience with that agonised expression. He heard sniffles from those around him. Were he a weaker man he might have cried too – but he needed to be strong. For her.

"_Love never dies, love never falters,  
Once it has spoken, love is yours  
Love never fades, love never alters,  
Hearts may get broken, love endures  
Hearts may get broken, love endures.. _

_Love never fades, love never alters,  
Hearts may get broken, love endures  
Hearts may get broken..."_

She almost choked the words out, one hand pressed against her heart as she sang. Why did he have to have those words on the band of that ring? He meant it as a _comfort_, not as inspiration for her mourning.

"_Love never dies! Love will continue!  
Love keeps on beating when you're gone!  
Love never dies once it is in you!  
Life may be fleeting, love lives on,  
Life may be fleeting, love lives on!"_

He choked back some sort of strained cry as she poured her heart and soul into those words, she sang with more force than he had ever seen, before falling to her knees on the last line. His heart leapt in his chest – it wasn't part of the song. The imbeciles of the crowd around him obviously assumed it some sort of dramatic act, but he knew his Christine. She was ill. She was genuinely crumpling to the floor.

A makeshift curtain swept past as the audience burst into applause, concealing her from his vision. The crowd roared with praise, now eager to stuff their faces with food and culture before the opera began. He slipped along the wall and behind a marble bust to find a gap between the curtains. Madame Giry was already helping Christine to her feet, cooing softly and pushing her chocolate hair back like a good mother figure. His heart almost burst in his chest. _He_ should be comforting her! Christine was _his_! He had created the creature that had just poured out her heart to those ravenous beasts – _he_ should be holding and soothing her!

He slipped through into the wings in complete silence, without being noticed by even Madame Giry as she and that daughter of hers practically carried Christine through to her dressing room. The foolish woman forgot to close the door in her haste – leaving him the perfect opportunity to slip in unnoticed, and hide himself in the shadows by her dressing screen. They forced her onto the chaise, fanning her face with programmes and continuously asking after her state of health. She looked pale and tear stricken – more so than usual.

"Meg, go back to the party. Christine and I will return in a few minutes," Madame Giry commanded her daughter. Meg pouted slightly, but then eagerly sped off to return to the festivities. It was clear she didn't care to sit with Christine. The older woman turned to Christine with a concerned expression. "My darling, you were wonderful. What a beautiful way to say goodbye to him," she smiled kindly, placing a hand on the young woman's shoulder.

"That wasn't a goodbye to _Erik_, Madame Giry. Please, you – you're very kind, but I have to get ready for the opera," she replied quietly, her voice strained. Giry sighed softly.

"My dear, tonight will be difficult for you. But you have to be strong. After tonight it will be easy, _so_ easy, and when it's all over you can let him go for good, and you will be happy with Raoul," she assured her softly. Christine scowled, but did not reply. Madame Giry sighed. "Alright, I'll leave you to get ready for tonight. You'll be wonderful," she said warmly, clasping her hands tightly together before leaving the dressing room.

Christine started to sob the moment she was gone. It was harder than she had thought, to do this. She had been looking forward to it for so long, but now she didn't know if she _could_ do it, not knowing that it meant she would leave whatever memory she had of Erik behind for good.

"Angel! Tell me I'm doing the right thing!" she demanded angrily.

'_You are. You are, my child. You sang beautifully, and I know you will be beautiful tonight,_' she heard the voice murmur. She gave a long, slow, relieved sigh when those words echoed around her. She had needed that.

"Thank you. I – I'll do my best. For you. For him," she said quietly, before standing up and sliding out of her dress so she could change.

'_You don't come in until the second act. Rest awhile. Sleep, my child. Sleep, and I shall sing to you. I'll be here. I'll be here till it's over,'_ he said gently. Christine sniffled, and nodded, slipping into her dressing robe and crawling onto the settee. She closed her eyes and drifted off almost immediately.

Erik felt something rather strange. It was... very odd. He slipped behind the mirror, clutching his chest, which was beating quickly. He felt an unusual dampness on his cheeks, and raised his fingers to it. They were tears.

He coughed, but it wasn't a cough, it was more of a... sob. He practically ran down the length of the passageway, before falling to his knees and letting out another loud sob, and an animalistic cry, as if he had been wounded. He clutched tighter onto his chest but the feeling didn't go away. He was... _crying_. He rose unsteadily to his feet and stumbled down the hallway, his sobs and tears and angry cries continuing.

He didn't even care how Nadir had known where to find him, but the Daroga immediately grabbed at his shoulders to stop him from collapsing to the floor, clapping his hand firmly against Erik's back as he shook with some sort of nameless agony that was ripping through him.

"It's alright, Erik. You know this is going to be for the best. She'll be fine, I'll look after her," he muttered. Erik gave out another angry, hurt-filled cry.

"Oh God – oh – oh _God,_ Daroga! W – What do I do? What's _wrong_?" he begged desperately, collapsing down to his knees. He gave an anguished sort of roar and instantly threw his head against the side of the stone passageway, trying to resist as Nadir pulled him back from it.

"Erik! Don't do anything stupid, you mustn't –"

"I will _never_ get to hold her again! I – I can't live without being able to kiss her, and feel her, and touch her, I – I don't want a world where I can't hear her sing!" he cried out, wailing pathetically as he tried to throw himself at the wall once more. "And she'll marry _him!_ And _he_ will get to love her! And she'll have _his_ children and she'll sing to _them_!" he continued furiously through clenched teeth, hot, burning tears streaming over his cheeks, both whole and deformed.

"Erik, she doesn't love him, she hates him, you know she –"

"I _hate_ her! God I _hate_ that girl! I hate what she's done to me, I should _never_ have promised her, I can't take her agony as well as mine!" he roared desperately, his whole body wracking with sobs.

"Erik, calm yourself, this isn't you. Just relax, let it pass, just let it pass, my friend," Nadir murmured, kneeling down and taking the younger man's head against his chest tightly. Erik continued to cry out and his body continued to shake.

"I should never have promised Daaé! I should _never_ have a – agreed to care for her, _God_, please! Take me now! _End_ this!" he shouted as loudly as he could, his voice ringing out through the passageways.

"Erik, she's going to sing for you tonight. She loves you; she _still_ loves you, stop this now and go to her after the performance. She'll take you back, I know she will!" Nadir urged him. "And she'll marry _you_, and _you_ will get to love her, and she'll have _your_ children, and she'll sing to _them_. Erik, please, you weren't born to die and you weren't born to live a half life, you were born to create music like none have ever heard before, and you were born to have Christine by your side," he hushed him gently.

"T - This burns. It _burns_!" Erik growled between gritted teeth. Nadir placed one hand on the back of his head.

"I know. I know it does, Erik, but you're strong. You're strong enough to go to her tonight, so _do_ it. She sings for you, she only ever sings for you," he assured him firmly. Erik shook his head violently.

"She – she hasn't said no to him, she loves _him,_ and I can't bear it!" he cried suddenly, pulling away and once more swinging his head to collide with the stone wall. Nadir slapped him firmly across the side of the jaw. Erik's shoulders still shook, but he was no longer sobbing.

"She doesn't love him, Erik. Now straighten yourself up, that girl has been killing herself for months to give tonight to you, so you had better watch it. Make tonight worth it for her," he commanded sternly.

Erik did not reply, only sunk to the floor, his head lowered. Nadir sighed.

"I'm going to go take my seat, but please, Erik, just trust her," he murmured, before turning heel and leaving him alone, hoping he at least had the sense not to do anything stupid.

**A/N: Sorry, this chapter might have a few errors. I usually read through and check everything before I upload, but I can't find my glasses and I'm too tired to squint at a screen for fifteen minutes. Anyway, we're almost at the end of the second volume. Sort of; the next chapter is half second volume and half third. But the next chapter has the drama :D**

**I just want to say thank you to everyone who is reading and reviewing this. I've been having a hard time recently, and it's been a massive comfort to me. Luckily, things are looking up in my family at the moment, and we got a new puppy, which makes everything wonderful. I wish I had the time and the energy to respond to all of you with detailed replies and answers to all of your questions, but as it is, I've barely got time to upload. If I haven't answered your questions, usually it means that the answer will appear soon in the story, so don't fret. **

**Anyways, I have to go find my glasses now and do some homework. Tootles!**

**-Evie**

**PS: Songs used in this chapter were 'Till I Hear You Sing' and 'Love Never Dies' from **_**Love Never Dies**_**. The plot sucks, but you have to admit, the music is AWESOME. Well, some of it is, at least.**


	29. The Opening Night

"_Passarino, go away for the trap is set, and waits for its prey..._"

Christine tried not to turn on the stage when she heard that voice. It rolled and rushed through her like a fire, setting her blood alight and tightening her chest. She rode out that chill with disbelief as she tried to stay in character, to not move, but an involuntary shiver rolled through her. She was going mad. It was just Piangi, that was it. It wasn't... it simply couldn't be.

"_You have come here, in pursuit of your deepest urge,_

_In pursuit of that wish which till now has been silent, silent…_"

She turned suddenly, just in time to see him raise his fingers to his lips on the word 'silence'. She trembled. It couldn't be. It _couldn't_. Suddenly her memory of Erik's face was blurred, and she couldn't recall if his hair was as dark as moleskin or if it had been lighter. She cursed his stupid mask – both that of the performer, whoever he was, and of the mask Erik had worn.

"_I have brought you! That our passions may fuse and merge,_

_In your mind you've already succumbed to me,_

_Dropped all defences, completely succumbed to me,_

_Now you are here with me, no second thoughts, _

_You've decided, decided…_"

Erik slowly strolled around the stage, drawing ever nearer to her. He was torn between crying and smiling as he watched her, his eyes never leaving her form as she shivered with the power of his voice, her eyes fluttering to a close as she savoured his words. Was she acting, or was her disbelief genuine? Did she know it was him? He wanted to reach her, to hold her, he desperately wanted her to be certain of his identity, even though he wore a mask. She rose just as he moved to the chorus.

"_Past the point of no return,_

_No backward glances, _

_Our games of make believe are at an end, _

_Past all thought of 'if' or 'when', _

_No use resisting, _

_Abandon thought and let the dream descend,"_ he continued, circling her like a wild beast circled its helpless prey. And she was helpless to resist him – both Christine and Aminta, wherever the other ended, were one in their fear. She locked eyes with him; and he had to look away to contain himself. _You're not here to reveal yourself_, he reminded his subconscious, but his mind had other ideas as he strode purposely to Christine.

"_What raging fire shall flood the soul?_

_What rich desire unlocks its door?_

_What sweet seduction lies before us?_"

He growled the lines out, his voice low and husky as he pressed himself to her back and pulled her into his chest, her head thrown back and lips parted in a soft gasp as he pressed one hand on her waist and the other ran ever-so-slowly over her neck and up to her jaw, before reversing its path, until he was holding only her hand in his, softly pulling her to follow him. Her breath came in short, strained gasps, just like it had in their most intimate moments. It was exactly as he had pictured it – this passionate creature was Aminta and Christine at once. Aminta _was_ Christine.

"_Past the point of no return, _

_The final threshold, _

_What warm unspoken secrets will we learn?_

_Beyond the point of no return?"_

He released her as he softly crooned his final line. She moved away, and pulled her sleeve back up to cover her shoulder, but it only stubbornly slid back down to its natural place. She met his eyes with passion and force; the proud, passionate, strong Aminta burning within her – and no sight of the confused, disbelieving Christine he knew was hiding in there somewhere.

"_You have brought me, _

_To that moment when words run dry,_

_To that moment where speech disappears into silence, silence…_"

She sung with full force, her eyes alight with the fire and intensity that he had never seen before. He shivered with the passion that seemed to be radiating off her entire presence – as if she was no longer singing, but rather crackling as the flames consumed her.

"_I have come here, hardly knowing the reasons why,_

_In my mind I've already imagined our bodies entwining, _

_Defenceless and silent _–"

_Now I am here with you,_

_No second thoughts,_

_I've decided, decided…_"

She sang those words with more force than he had even imagined for his Aminta; the same force that she had when _their_ bodies were entwined, the same force she had when they practised that song back at the castle. She still looked unsure, but she was... _there_, and real, and... Christine. His heart lurched with the realisation that this was the last time he would ever see her.

"_Past the point of no return,_

_No going back now!_

_Our passion play has now at last begun!_"

A heavy, seductive tango-like beat dominated the orchestra, the violin rising up as they seemed to circle each other across the stage. She moved with confidence and a seductive quality that he had seldom seen, but craved.

"_Past all thought of right or wrong, _

_One final question –_

_How long should we two wait before we're one?_

_When will the blood begin to race?_

_A sleeping bud burst into bloom?_

_When will the flames at last consume us_?"

Her voice was rich and passionate, with a gorgeous throaty deepness on the low notes and a crystal-like precision of the higher tones, just like he had imagined when he wrote that song for her. They began ascending the winding staircase in the centre of the stage, their eyes never moving from the other, the tension almost tangible between them.

"_Past the point of no return –_

_The final threshold!_"

Their voices rang out in perfect harmony and contrast, creating a sound that was so ethereally perfect that it caused several people in the audience to drop programs and visibly shiver as they mounted the platform and moved towards each other.

In one short moment, he had pulled her against his chest and his hands were running over her body, taking hers with him. It was an intoxicating sight to see her own slender, pale hands sliding over the curve of her waist and across her breasts. She looked to him for a moment with question and hope. He twisted her body so it was her back against his chest, if only so he didn't have to see those eyes!

"_The bridge is crossed,_

_So stand and watch it burn!_

_We've passed the point_

_Of no return…_"

For a moment, a brief idea flickered at the back of his mind, that he could reveal himself now and forever be locked in such an embrace. But before he could sing one of those sweet love songs he had composed for her, the crashing of tam-tams announced the end of the scene, and the curtains closed.

Christine turned, snapping out of her daze, looking around the stage. When she turned back in disbelief, he was gone.

She must have been dreaming. It _can't_ have been... and yet...

"Mademoiselle! Please, the next scene!" one of the stagehands hissed, rushing up the prop. She nodded, still in disbelief, and dashed down to the wings.

She glanced back over her shoulder.

It can't have been.

Those same thoughts of disbelief were passing through the minds of several people in that audience. Madame Giry, for one, could not believe her eyes. It _was_ Erik, he was revealing himself! He was so _foolish_ for taking such a risk!

The managers were spluttering out their wine and choking on their cigars as they watched the display before them, Nadir was frowning rather obviously, but it was Raoul who was watching with an expression of complete horror. He knew full well it wasn't Piangi that sang that song. It was _Erik_, and he was taking a risk he would regret.

Christine was certain she was going mad, particularly in the next scene, as she watched Piangi, the _real_ Piangi, mourn Aminta's loss when she returned to her fiancé. She threw herself into her performance, but her mind was racing with disbelief. It couldn't be Erik, it simply _couldn't_ be. Erik was dead, she had seen him die. It could only have been her angel – but how had be become human? How could she _see_ him? Was he dreaming? Was she so desperate to have Erik near that she would imagine such a thing?

She tried not to think of it as the scenes progressed. She was singing Erik's music, _for_ Erik, and that was all that mattered. On that stage she could feel his presence surrounding her like it had never done before, it was driving her. She couldn't hear the sneers of Carlotta between scenes or see the dirty looks Meg was throwing her; all she cared about was the music. The crowd watched in appreciation but they were lost to her.

She was hoping that in the next duet of 'Beneath a Moonless Sky' Piangi's mysterious replacement might reappear, but it was to no avail. Regardless, she sang passionately as her character, Aminta, and Don Juan recalled their night together a year after. But it was Piangi who sang, and Piangi who declined to fight with Aminta's fiancé on the eve of their wedding, choosing her honour over his. It was a beautiful, dark and dangerous opera that was years before its time, but the audience lapped up the discordant sevenths and ninths and the sudden metre changes as if they knew no better.

They didn't know they were being surrounded with such beauty as she sang his songs with full passion. In those moments Erik wasn't gone, because he was alive in his music. Before she even noticed the opera was almost over, and she was standing in position for the final scene.

Aminta and Don Juan were standing on opposite sides of the same bridge, ready to throw themselves into the river to their deaths, not realising each other was there. The refrain from 'Beneath a Moonless Sky' began to swirl up around them in a sharp crescendo before her voice cried forth.

"_And I loved you, yes I loved you!_

_I'd have followed anywhere you led,_

_I woke to swear my love, and found you gone_

_Instead!_"

She couldn't turn. She couldn't turn. She could _not_ turn when she heard his voice again, because it wasn't part of the opera and no matter how much she wanted to turn to see if it _was_ true, if Erik was really singing on the other side of that prop.

"_And I loved you!"_ he sang passionately.

"_I loved you!" _she returned.

"_And I left you!"_

"_How I loved you!_"

"_And I had to, both of us know why..."_

"_We both knew why!_"

"_And yet, I won't regret, from now until I die,_

_That night I can't forget, beneath_

_A moonless sky..._" they sang in unison, just like in that practise room so many months ago.

She took a deep breath and then jumped off the prop into the 'river' as the music swirled around them. She looked over to him, but all she could see was the dark shape of his body slid beneath the trapdoor on the stage. She wanted to cry out for him, but a hiss from the stagehand forced her to slip down into her own trapdoor. She ran through the corridor, back to the wings to find him.

"Where is he? Where has he gone?" she demanded instantly. The stagehand raised a brow.

"Who? Piangi?" he frowned. She shook her head.

"No! _Him_! The man who was just singing!" she cried. His frown grew.

"Mademoiselle Daaé, that was Piangi, look, he's singing the finale now," he informed her, gesturing to the stage. Christine immediately felt her shoulders slump. It _was_ Piangi up there, singing before the dazzled audience. "Are you alright, mademoiselle?" he questioned carefully. She shook her head.

"N – No, I'm not. Excuse me," she murmured, dashing out from the wings to her dressing room, tears streaming down her face. "Angel! Angel! I _need_ you! Please, dear God, hear me!" she begged, slamming her door shut.

She heard nothing.

"I need you, angel! Was it you? _Was it you_?" she demanded, her voice ringing out in the dark, empty dressing room. She felt a sob rise up in her throat, and the only word running through her mind was '_no_'. She trembled and fell to the ground with an agonising cry, but still she heard nothing.

She would not have been so concerned, so devastated, if she had still felt his presence. Because even when her angel was silent for those past few days, she still felt him. But now... now she didn't. Now she felt the same pointless emptiness that had coursed through her when that bullet pierced Erik's chest.

It was over. Erik was dead, and her angel was gone. It was all over, forever.

Christine's hands trembled as she reached for the single red rose, tied with a black ribbon on her dressing table, and kissed the petals before she picked up a pen and turned a piece of her script over to write on the back.

_Dear Madame Giry and Nadir,_ she wrote, with an unsteady hand.

_I am very sorry for my weakness and what I've put you all through. I appreciate all you have done for me, but this simply cannot go on. Madame Giry, I know you didn't tell me of how you knew my parents so well and of how Meg and I were best friends when we were babies. The more time I spent with you the more memories I had, memories of your warm smile and of the fond way my mother spoke of you. I am grateful, so grateful for how you have cared for me. And Nadir, my dear, sweet Nadir, you are probably the kindest, sweetest, most patient man I know. I can understand why Erik was so fond of you. Thank you for staying with me, for doing your best to help me. I thank both of you, but it's time. I've given you my troubles for too long, it's time I gave them away to God, and let the cold water wash me clean. _

_I no longer wish to be placated. I know Erik had done bad things, but it's not fair that he died_. _When Raoul shot him he shot me. When Erik bled I bled, and when he died I died too. Now all I want to do is wash that pain away._

_Thank you so much, but this is goodbye,_

_Christine_

She kissed the note and left it on the table. She pulled off her costume till she was wearing nothing more than the white petticoat gown that made her look like some sort of Victorian sacrifice, with her long hair flowing down her back. She took nothing with her but Erik's ring and the rose, not even her shoes as she slipped out of her dressing room. She ran away from the joyous cries of the cast and the audience, she ran till she found herself at the back door of the theatre with the cold, icy air of the near-winter night.

Her whole body was shaking with the cold as she dashed through the 8th arrondissement of the Parisian streets. She ran for what felt like hours, till she could see the outskirts of the _Jardin des Tuileries_. She knew it wasn't safe going through there at night, but it was too cold for anyone to be out, and there were hardly even any cars. She continued to run till she was at the bridge, the black waters of the Seine splashing beneath the _Point Royal_. It wasn't as high up from the water as she would have liked, but it would do the trick.

For a moment she wondered if she would end up something like _l'Inconnue de la Seine_, nothing more than a death mask made of a nameless girl. She wanted to laugh at her own stupidity as she climbed up on the wall of the road, gripping the traffic light pole to support her.

"_L – Love never dies..._" she sung, her voice rasping, feeling tears flowing freely down her cheeks. She trembled. One or two cars drove past, but it was as if they could not see her. She was glad. She wanted to stand alone. She didn't want anyone to try to stop her from being with Erik.

As long as she could feel her angel with her one last time before she jumped, she wouldn't even care if it hurt.

* * *

"She was beautiful," Nadir smiled, finding Madame Giry almost immediately after the performance was over. The woman was frowning. "What is it?" he questioned, her uneasiness catching.

"I – I can't find Christine. She wasn't at the curtain call, she didn't bow, and she's not in her dressing room," she replied, glancing over ballet girls and chorus singers in the wings.

"Are you sure? Did she say where she was going?" Nadir demanded, feeling fear grip him. She shook her head. "Come then, let's go to her dressing room again, maybe she just went to the bathroom," he decided, winding their way through the wings to the room. Madame Giry flicked on the light and looked around with a defeated sigh.

"She's not here!" she muttered in annoyance. Nadir stepped over to the dresser when he saw a piece of paper. Perhaps she'd written a note to say she was going home, he hoped, picking it up.

"Oh god. Oh god, no," he cried, his eyes scanning the paper.

"What? What is it?" she demanded, snatching the paper from him. He was suddenly pale. "No. No, she wouldn't do this!" Madame Giry practically shrieked.

"Of course she would do this! She's been waiting to do this since she came to this godforsaken place!" Nadir roared, wheeling around suddenly and snatching the note from her. "She mentions water. Do you think –"

"The closest part of the Seine is just past the Jardin des Tuileries! That's almost two kilometres away from here, it's freezing outside! She can't have –"

But Nadir didn't listen. He raced from the room, screaming Erik's name as he went, but he heard no response from the Phantom.

"Get in, woman!" he screamed back at Madame Giry, who was rushing behind him. He pulled open the door to his car and screeched out of the road, Paris zooming past him.

His blood was pounding, his mind racing – he couldn't let her kill herself. He skidded out onto the road that ran along the Seine, racing up to the Pont Royal. He caught her ghostly white figure out of the corner of his eye and slammed to a stop, racing out of his car and running across the road to her.

"Christine! _Christine!_" he cried out as loudly as he could. She turned her head slightly, tears streaming down her white face, her whole body trembling. He edged closer. "Christine, _please_, you can't do this. You don't understand, Erik isn't –"

"_No_, Nadir! I don't want you to talk me out of this! I made up my mind months ago, this is what I want!" she objected sharply.

"Christine, you mustn't, think of all you'll be throwing away!" Madame Giry called. She gave a bitter scoff as her white dress billowed around her slender frame in the cold wind.

"I'm not throwing away anything. I've done all I was born to do, Madame Giry, I sang his opera and now it's over," she practically whispered.

"It's _not_! Dear God, Christine, you can't do this!" Nadir cried, trying to edge forwards, but she stumbled, and he froze.

"Don't come any closer, Nadir. Please, you told me y – you were relieved when your son died, because his pain was over!" she called out, her voice almost breaking with tears.

"Reza was a _child_, Christine! He was just a child, and so are you! No child deserves to die without living their life!" he begged desperately.

"But I _have_ lived, Nadir! In those five months with Erik I lived more than I could live a hundred lifetimes, and it's all I want!" she insisted.

"A – And what about what I – _I _want?" panted an angry voice from behind. All turned to see Erik, clutching his chest, obviously having run from the theatre to the bridge at top speed.

Christine trembled, her eyes fixed on the man before her. She clutched tightly to the traffic pole.

"No."

"_Yes_, Christine. Yes," he rasped, still catching his breath, rising up to his full height with a small chuckle. "I suppose I need to exercise a little more. Took a bit out of me, my dear," he murmured with a pained smile.

She shook her head, and gave a small whimper, which turned into a sob as she almost thrashed her head from side to side.

"No. No, no, _no!_" she cried, her whole body now shaking violently.

"Come down. Please, Christine, come down. It's all over. I'm here. I was always here," he said softly, stepping forwards. She clutched tighter to the pole, and shook her head firmly. "Christine, get down _now_!" he barked insistently.

"I wanted to _die_, Erik! I wanted to never wake up and have to live without you!" she cried furiously, her eyes flashing angrily.

"You're being immature. Throw yourself into the Seine, will you? Good lord, child, haven't I taught you any better?" he questioned snappishly. Nadir and Madame Giry both shared doubtful expressions.

"What, fake my own death instead? Get shot, and make the woman I love think I'm dead? Is that what I should have done, Erik?" she accused furiously.

"I did that because I love you, woman!" he objected, poking the air before him with one long finger for emphasis.

"Oh, you love me, do you? What kind of sick, cruel, _disgusting_ joke were you playing? And just because I was having a nightmare does _not_ give you the right to make love to me when I'm asleep!" she snapped.

"You were only half asleep, and _you_ initiated it. If you weren't conscious of your actions I wouldn't have done it," he insisted firmly.

Both Nadir and Madame Giry looked very much like they were about to say something, but neither of them could think of words. They both couldn't believe that after months of separation, two people who loved each other so much were _arguing_.

"So for all these months you just wandered around, pretending to be some sort of angel so for your own pathetic humour? If you think I'm getting down from here for you then you are _sorely _mistaken," she snapped curtly.

"This is the kidnapping issue all over again, isn't it, woman?"

"How on _earth_ does this relate to the fact that you _kidnapped_ me in the middle of the night and refused to tell me why for over two months?" she questioned incredulously.

"You're still bitter over that so you're taking it out on me now. This is almost as stupid as when you tried to jump thirty feet to your safety. It's called _gravity_, you neurotic girl!" he roared back.

"What, and I suppose my 'delicate' female mind wouldn't be able comprehend such a tricky concept as gravity, would it?" she snapped, her voice loaded with sarcasm.

"Do you two have _any_ idea what you're doing?" Nadir questioned suddenly.

"Shut up, Daroga," Erik threw over his shoulder, before turning back to Christine. "Get down. _Now_, Christine, or you can walk home," he threatened.

"I'm not going anywhere with _you_, you sick, animalistic bastard!"

"I did this because _I love you_, for goodness sake!" he growled between gritted teeth.

"You sanctimonious _con_! What possible explanation could you have for what you did?" she demanded.

"I'm a damned _monster_, woman! I'm twice your age, I live in a castle in the middle of nowhere, I doubt we can ever marry and I have _no_ people skills, I'm not exactly your most eligible match, my dear!" he spat bitterly.

"If I wanted the most eligible match I would have gone off with Raoul a _long_ time ago, you idiot! Did you not understand, from the tears, the nightmares, the screaming at night and the basic misery I was in on a constant basis, that I might _miss_ you?" she questioned wildly. He scoffed.

"You were fine; you're strong, you damned spit-fire. And I wanted you to be able to focus on the music, I didn't know how much you cared!" he snapped.

"I _care_ enough to be standing on the side of a bridge, ready to throw myself off for you, Erik!" she retorted pointedly.

"Well I know _now_, but I didn't then!" he growled. He muttered something insulting beneath his breath, before stepping forwards, and climbing up on the edge of the bridge beside her. "There! You jump, I jump. I'll jump _for_ you, if you want," he snapped, clasping her hand tightly. "Christine, if you really hate me that much, if you hate life that much, then we might as well just end it now," he said determinedly.

"Fine. You can jump. I don't care. I won't even cry at your funeral," she sniffed, turning her head away from him petulantly. Erik looked mildly horrified.

"Are you _insane_?"

"Are _you_?"

"I thought that much was clear from the beginning! Do you really think _sane_ men live in the bowels of an opera theatre, exploiting the managers and terrorising the performers?" he questioned sarcastically. She rolled her eyes.

"Funny, you forgot kidnapping teenagers and then pretending to be a ghost for months," she snapped.

"Can't you two discuss this _later_?" Madame Giry cried incredulously.

"In a minute, Madame," Erik snapped, before climbing off the side of the bridge. "Christine, I'm only going to say this one more time. _Get down_," he commanded. She scoffed.

"Go away. I hate you. I wish you had never come back. I wish I never met you!" she snapped.

"You're being an absolute fool, Christine. I expected better of you," he replied as calmly as he could, but his tone was full of hurt and anger.

"And now you're insulting me, too! For goodness sakes, Erik, if you really think I'm going to stay your girlfriend after –"

"You're not my _girlfriend_, _you_ might be a teenager but I am certainly not!" he snapped.

"Well it doesn't count as 'lovers' if one of the two is asleep!" she snapped pointedly.

"And pray tell me, whose ring are you wearing on that finger?" he demanded curtly.

"I hate you. Nadir, please punch him for me," Christine requested pointedly.

"Daroga, don't you dare."

"Do it, Nadir!"

"Do they realise that they're speaking French? Am I supposed to understand?" Nadir questioned, turning back to Madame Giry, who was looking on in shared disbelief.

"He's not going to. He's loyal to _me_. I've known him since before you were even _thought _of, young lady!" Erik snapped, turning back to Christine.

"Don't you _young lady_ me, Erik Danté! You can turn around right now and leave me alone! I don't care about you anymore!" she snapped. Erik gave a petulant huff, and crossed his arms.

"You're getting cold," he grumbled.

"No I'm not."

"Yes, you are. I can see you're shivering."

"I am not."

"Yes you _are._"

"I'm _not_."

"Are too."

"Are not."

"Are too."

"Are not."

"Are – this is ridiculous," Erik decided suddenly, stepping forwards and grabbing her around the knees, tossing her over his shoulder. She screamed, and began, beating his back with her tiny, balled fists.

"_Erik_! You put me down _right_ now!" she cried furiously.

"Stop hitting me, woman!"

"Put me _down_!" she demanded. Erik cursed when they got onto the footpath, and deposited her on the ground before him. She stood, a good foot shorter than him, glaring up at him with dark, fiery eyes.

Before Nadir and Madame Giry knew what was happening they were clutching tightly to each other, pressing desperate, frantic kisses to each other's lips, jaws, cheeks, necks, wherever they could. Erik picked Christine up and clutched tightly to her lower back, their mouths still clashing violently.

"Do they _breathe_?" Nadir muttered, feeling rather uncomfortable. Madame Giry coughed, but they still didn't react. She flushed brightly, and turned around, Nadir following immediately. Cars beeped as they drove by, but still the two were locked in a passionate embrace.

It was some minutes before the couple parted, breathing heavily. Christine was so _angry_ on the one side, but so relieved that he was there, that he was alive, that her months of agony were over, but still... she just couldn't believe it. It was too much, one moment he had been gone and then... he was _there_.

Had he even been gone? Was he _ever_ gone? Was there ever a time when she didn't feel him, even in those long months of agony?

She buried her head in his chest and began to sob uncontrollably. Erik smoothed back her hair gently.

"Here. You're cold," he mumbled, as Nadir and Madame Giry turned to see what was happening. He slid his jacket off and over her shoulders. Nadir and Giry frowned to see he was still wearing his costume from when he had stolen Piangi's place onstage.

"We should get her home. She must be freezing," Madame Giry murmured, taking the girl and pulling her over to Nadir's waiting car. Erik watched them go with an unreadable expression as Nadir stepped up to him.

"She was going to do it," was all he said. Nadir nodded.

"I believe so."

Erik gave a long, slow, rasping breath, as if it were the first he had taken in months.

"It's over now. Thank god. It's over," he practically gasped, before clapping Nadir firmly on the back and pulling him into a short embrace. "Oh – and tell _no one_ about earlier tonight. I'd never hear the end of it from Christine," he muttered quietly, before turning back to the car and slipping into the backseat where Madame Giry had ushered Christine. Nadir smiled as she watched them. Christine scowled, but allowed herself to be pulled into Erik's lap, her head against his chest, his hand gently stroking the length of her arm.

The car was silent on the drive over to Madame Giry's apartment. Nadir glanced in the rear-view mirror several times when he could, to see the same picture. Christine looked to be asleep, but he knew she wasn't, and Erik looked... well, absolutely exhausted. The past few months had been very hard on him, so it seemed as if he was looking forward to be able to rest and bask in Christine's presence.

Not a word as said as they all climbed out of Nadir's car outside Madame Giry's apartment building. Christine didn't even object when Erik pulled her into his arms and carried her all the way up to the apartment, till they were sitting down on the settee while Madame Giry made tea, Erik murmuring quiet little words of love and apology into Christine's ears as Nadir tried to stop his head from spinning.

Erik took one of the cups of tea she set out on the table and trying to coax Christine into drinking. "Please. Drink it, you're cold and you're tired. It'll help," he assured her gently, pushing the mug up to her mouth. She reluctantly took a mouthful or two. Erik sighed. "That's not enough, Christine," he said slightly patronisingly.

"_You're_ not enough," she snapped curtly, in English. Nadir sniggered into his tea. Erik rolled his eyes.

"I'll run her a bath," Madame Giry announced, sitting up, and crossing over to the bathroom.

"Would you like to go to my apartment tonight, or would you prefer to stay here?" Erik questioned her gently. She lowered her eyes.

"Here."

"T – That's alright. I understand. I don't want to... to push you," he murmured quietly, but he was obviously quite hurt. "I – I'll go get you a change of clothes from your room," he decided, allowing her to slide out of his arms and leave the room. From where Nadir was seating he could see his old friend bite his fist to keep from crying, screwing his eyes shut and leaning heavily against the wall, as if it could support him, as well as the ceiling. Nadir waited till he was out of sight to speak to Christine, but she got there first.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she demanded, her whole body trembling. Nadir sighed, and leant his head against his hand.

"Erik didn't want me to. He said he had his reasons, and I shouldn't interfere. I didn't think he'd let it get this far," he admitted honestly. "Christine, I've done you wrong more than once, but I _swear_, I never meant for this to happen," he said earnestly. She nodded slowly.

"And Madame Giry? She knew?" she questioned, her voice weak. Nadir nodded.

"Yes. But she tried to convince Erik on several occasions to tell you. It wasn't our place, Christine," he insisted. She sniffled.

"I understand. It's his fault, not yours," she replied quietly, lowering her head.

"What will you do?" Nadir questioned softly. She shrugged.

"I – I can't just kiss him and pretend that for all those nights alone I didn't want to die. I need to forgive him first, and I don't know how I'm going to do that," she shrugged. Nadir nodded in understanding as Madame Giry returned to the room. She gave the girl a comforting hug, and sent her into the bathroom.

Erik came in a few minutes later, holding one of Christine's nightgowns. He sat down on the edge of the settee and did not speak, but it was clear to both of them that he wanted to say something.

"I –" he stopped himself with a small sigh. "I appreciate what you both did. You were better friends to her than I've ever been. And I know you two must hate me, and I don't deserve your pity or forgiveness, and in truth, I don't even need or want it. But I was in agony too, and you two were both causes for that," he began, his voice strangely steady, his eyes not moving from the floor. "So I thank you for how you helped her. But may whatever God you believe in have mercy on you if you _ever_ try to take her away from me again," he threatened, his voice icy cool as he rose to his feet, and then crossed over to the bathroom, opening the door and slipping in. They saw him kneeling to sit beside Christine's bath just as the door closed.

"He's right. We caused all of this," Madame Giry muttered, her voice strained and shaking with emotion.

"But they could have stopped it a lot earlier," Nadir reminded her. She nodded, sniffled a little, and rose to her feet. "I'll go. You must be tired too," he said, putting down his cup of tea. She gave a strained smile.

"Please, stay. I don't think tonight is over yet," she requested. He glanced to the bathroom, and nodded.

"Of course. You're right," he nodded. Madame Giry smiled, and then excused herself to fetch him some blankets for the sofa. He thanked her upon her return, and lay back with a tired sigh.

"Good night, Nadir," she said finally, before she slipped into the hall.

Madame Giry sighed. She could hear muffled voices from the bathroom, but they didn't seem to be arguing. Instead of trying to determine what they might be saying, she checked that Meg had gotten home and to bed safely before she went to bed herself.

It had been a rather exhausting opening night.

**A/N: Sorry I'm not updating regularly; university takes up a lot of my time right now. WAY more than I want it to, but I have to work my bum off anyway or else I won't get to keep my scholarship :( So this is the end of Volume II, and the last of the angst for a while. Well, there will be **_**some**_** in the next two chapters, but no 'oh my life is a swirling black abyss of misery without my significant other'. That comes later ;)**


	30. The Bath Conversation

Christine didn't look up as Erik entered the bathroom, and sat himself down on the floor beside the tub. She leant her head back and allowed the hot water to warm her body.

"To say I'm sorry would not even come close to how much I wish this had never happened, Christine," he said softly, leaning his arm against the side of the bath.

"I wanted to die, Erik. And I would have done it. I would have killed myself a long time ago if it weren't for this damned opera. I was being _tortured_ for months, thinking you were dead," she whispered. He nodded.

"I know," he murmured. She looked up when she heard the unusual tone of his voice. His head was bowed and his eyes screwed shut, but it almost sounded as if he were... _crying_.

She moved to the other end of the bath, and with one wet hand, reached for the side of his face. His shoulders started to shake and he pressed his brow against the edge of the tub. She didn't speak as she pressed small, soft kisses to the top of his head. He was silent, but she knew he was crying. She hadn't thought of how difficult it must have been for him over all those months, to be so near to her and yet to be so far. And in that moment, she needed to reassure herself that he was real. She pulled his head up and pressed her mouth against his, her arms sliding around his neck as he kissed her with force.

"Never do this to me again," she murmured against his mouth. He nodded, and wound one hand in her dark curls.

"Never try to do that again. Even if I'm gone. Please, God, Christine, I have _never_ been more frightened than when I saw you up there!" he cried emphatically, pulling away slightly. She could still see the fear in his eyes as his free hand traced the outline of her jaw, as if to affirm that she was still living and breathing.

"Why, Erik? Why did you do that to me? To _us_?" she asked softly. He sighed, and slumped against the bathroom wall.

"It took me a few weeks to recover fully, Christine. It would have taken less time, but I – I was completely defeated without you. I was so desperate to feel you beside me that I sort of... sunk into a state of misery," he began slowly. "And then I travelled to Paris. I knew you were there; it was the only place that made sense for you to be. I was tempted to just take you and bring you back to the castle, but I –"

"I would have come back. I would have come back happily, Erik," she insisted. He gave a weak smile, and nodded.

"I know. But if we went back, or even if we went to Austria or Egypt or Hungary they would have found us someday, somehow, and I – I didn't want to live my entire life running away, not when I finally have something to live for," he explained with a slight shrug, before giving another sigh. "Anyway, I was about ready to give up and just take you when I had an idea. I don't know how much you know about my former involvement with the opera house, but –"

"I know about it all. Go on," she commanded.

"Well, I had been working on finishing _Don Juan_, and when it was about finished I... I couldn't resist making them put it on. I was hoping by instructing that it had to be an open audition for the soprano lead that you'd be encouraged to try," he continued, slightly sheepishly. "Time was running out before Nadir brought you to the theatre. So that was when I tried to make you think I was an angel. I was desperate, I threw my voice so it sounded like I was echoing in the back of your head, and I think you felt me," he explained. She nodded.

"I did. I did feel you, that's why I went back," she murmured softly. He gave a small smile.

"Yes, well I had to push a few people around to make sure you auditioned for that part. From there you did brilliantly, but I couldn't help myself. I needed to make sure you remained interested in my opera, and I... I just wanted to make sure you were alright. So I suppose that explains the 'stalking' thing," he shrugged, looking rather shamefaced. "I stayed with you at night. You... God, Christine, you would wake up screaming every hour or so and I couldn't bear it. I _had_ to comfort you, but one night it... it went too far. And instead of pulling back, instead of distancing myself, I just – couldn't resist. And the worst thing is, I don't even regret half of what I did. It just spun more and more out of control each day," he murmured, pulling his knees up and resting his forehead against them.

"Were you ever going to tell me?" she asked softly. He shrugged.

"I thought it was for the best. I only ever cause pain for the people around me. But every time you screamed _I_ felt it. I am... _tied_ to you. I only wanted what was best, and I thought what was best was for you to focus purely on your music, and then to run off into the sunset with someone more worthy of you," he sighed. She frowned.

"Surely not _Raoul?_" she practically spat. He growled.

"Good lord no. Actually..." he trailed off, looking rather shamefaced.

"What? What is it?" she questioned. He gave a sheepish shrug.

"I thought... the Daroga."

Christine shook her head.

"I didn't want him. I wanted _you_," she insisted, with a hint of bitterness. He shrugged.

"He's the one man in this entire world that I respect enough," he explained simply. "And I've seen you two together – you like him," he accused. She rolled her eyes.

"Yes, I like him. I might even love him. Or I could have, had I never met you. But there's just not enough room for him in my heart too, even though he wouldn't treat it as carelessly as you do," she returned pointedly. Erik looked genuinely hurt by her words.

"No one could love you like I do, Christine. No one," he murmured with a gravitating seriousness. His eyes seemed to drive right into her soul, and all those months ago, she might have trembled with their force. But she was too strong, too bitter, too bruised now.

"And if I'd never known you, I wouldn't need to be loved and hated with fire and ice at the same time, and loving someone like Raoul or Nadir would have made me _happy_!" she threw back, feeling tears slide down her cheeks and sting her eyes.

"Nadir might make you happy, but he couldn't complete you the way I do," Erik insisted, his hand gripping the side of the tub. Christine slid back into the bathwater, dipping her head beneath the water before rising once more, and opening her emerald eyes, staring up at the ceiling. "You're so perfect and innocent and angelic that you _need_ me, Christine, we're just two halves of a person apart, there can't be light without darkness," he continued firmly.

"You knew that the whole time, Erik, and yet you still left me," she said, her voice quiet and strangely cold. Erik grabbed a fistful of his own hair and tugged on it with a frustrated groan. He didn't know what to say or what to do; she was so closed off to him.

"You survived without me, Christine! How was I supposed to react, when I saw you at the theatre with Nadir, embracing him, letting _his_ arms hold you, the same arms that tore us apart?" he demanded. She sat up, and leant forwards, her chin resting on her knees, arms wound around her calves. Her curtain of damp curls covered her body from his gaze. "And I would have gladly ended my time on earth if you died! You have to accept it; I love you more than you could ever love me, because you thought I was gone and you were still breathing!" he swore passionately.

"Are you blaming me for not killing myself?" she demanded. He growled in frustration.

"_No_, I –" he stopped himself. She glared at him, her eyes flashing brilliantly.

"I never really believed you were gone, I found that out tonight. In my heart I didn't believe you were dead," she said, her voice shaking with intensity. "I loved you _so_ much that I couldn't stand the risk of leaving this world when you might have still been in it, when I could be reminded of you, when your soul was here, with me," she insisted, a fresh wave of tears spilling from her eyes. "I _loved_ you Erik, don't blame me for loving you!" she snapped, splashing water in his face from the bath, as if to punish him for his stupidities. He silently wiped the drips from his face as he thought over his words.

"I didn't believe you could love me, Christine. Not someone like you," he admitted, reaching for her hand, but she pulled away from his grip. "After all those years of... hatred from all who surrounded me, it's hard to believe someone so perfect would even consent to breathe the same air as me. That's a big part of why I didn't reveal myself, I was convinced that after you had seen the monster I am beneath my mask, you would reject me," he continued gently, trying to catch her eye. "I – I couldn't let that happen. I couldn't be pushed away, not by you, Christine. I wouldn't be able to survive," he insisted almost desperately.

"I would never have pushed you away. _Never_," she said honestly, before closing her eyes and sinking back into the bath.

"I was going to leave tonight. I was going to – well, I think I had the same idea you did," he confessed, as if he hadn't heard her. She sat up suddenly, as if to confirm his presence beside her, but he hushed her with a single finger against her mouth. "Please. I need to say this," he practically begged.

She nodded, and then relaxed back into the warm water. He took a deep breath before continuing.

"I frightened Piangi into letting me sing those parts for him. I wanted to sing with you – desperately. I had to have that one last chance, so... I know it was stupid, but I had to do it. Then I was going to hang myself and never cause havoc to your life again," he began. "I couldn't help but go back to your dressing room. I was hoping I could see you one last time and then that would be it; I would have died happily for you," he swore firmly. She believed the sincerity in his eyes. "I found the note and ran to the only place I could think you'd try to do something like that. I used to watch you, before any of this ever started, and you would take those bratty children out to the gardens and just stand by that bridge for hours at a time – staring out there. I knew what you were thinking, so it seemed only logical that you would try... something like that," he finished quietly, lowering his head once more.

"We're both so stupid," Christine mumbled. He gave a small chuckle.

"Yes. I suppose we are. Well, I know _I_ am. You were so strong, the whole time," he muttered, reaching for one of her long, dark chocolate locks and gently running it through his fingers.

"I can't just forgive you for this, Erik. It still hurts. It's unimaginable how much this aches," she said quietly, turning her head away slightly. He removed his hand.

"I should probably go," he sighed, rising to his feet. She reached for his hand, and held it tight.

"We're not done here," she insisted. He nodded, and slid back to the floor with a tired sigh. "I loved you, you know. All along, since I came to the castle, I loved you," she said suddenly. He leant over and pressed a kiss to her naked shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled against her skin, one hand trailing down her arm, his eyes tracing the image of his ring on her slender finger.

"Nadir took the ring from me when we left the castle. I hated him for that, because I had _nothing_ of yours," she admitted quietly. Erik nodded in understanding, his head resting on her uncovered back. He wanted to apologise again, but he didn't know if there was much else he could say.

"I had to steal it back from him. He hates possessions, he burnt everything of his son's when he died, and what his wife didn't take with her he gave away," he explained, tracing invisible patterns on her bare shoulder.

"I wanted it back. God, I needed _something_ of yours. Even that robe. I had nothing to remember you by, nothing to comfort me. You have no idea how hard that was for me!" she insisted, her anger at his betrayal swelling and burning inside her once more.

"I'm –"

"Don't you _dare_ apologise again Erik, I – I just –" she stopped herself, pulling her body away from his touch. He stared at her with months of longing and desperation, but she was turned away from him. She sat in such an intimate position, her body naked with water sloshing around her waist, and yet she was untouchable to him.

"I don't know what else to do."

"You almost _killed_ me, Erik!" she insisted suddenly, turning to him with wide emerald eyes filled with accusation. "You make me feel so much fire and joy and passion, but I don't know if it's enough to make up for what you put me through!" she cried, her voice hoarse with pain. Erik lowered his eyes.

"What can I do? Tell me what to do, Christine, just tell me," he practically begged.

"I don't trust you anymore. I love you, I still do and I'll never stop, but how can I let you kiss me, how can I let you hold me when I don't trust you?" she asked with quiet desperation. It wasn't a statement, she genuinely needed to know.

"Christine, I _promise_ that I won't –"

"Your promises are worthless to me now, Erik," she interrupted simply.

He swallowed.

"I'll go," he replied quietly, rising to his feet and leaving the bathroom before she could think if she wanted him to stay or leave.

He wasn't surprised to see Nadir laying back on the sofa in the living room. Erik sat down in the armchair by a dying fire, completely silent. He sensed the Daroga's eyes on him, but still he did not speak.

"You can't expect her to forgive you yet. You'd be lucky if she ever forgave you," he rationalised.

"Shut up, Daroga. After all you've –"

"You brought this upon yourself, Erik. Stop blaming others," he replied shortly. Erik huffed angrily, his eyes glinting with anger and the reflection from the fire.

"I don't know what I'll do if she doesn't forgive me. I can't live with a silent cloud hanging over us for the rest of our lives," he admitted, after a long period in which Nadir did not speak. "She said she doesn't trust me anymore," he added, so quietly his words were almost overpowered by the faint crackling of the fireplace.

"Then give her a reason to trust you."

"Oh, and how do I do _that_, Daroga?" Erik growled to his old friend. Nadir shrugged.

"Show her that you trust her, and she'll trust you in return," he theorised simply. Erik opened his mouth as if to object, but then stopped himself, raising his hand to his mask. "I think it's the only way to get yourself out of this mess," Nadir added, instantly knowing what Erik was thinking.

"I can't, I can't expose her to this curse, these are _my_ sins, she shouldn't have to bear them," he insisted firmly.

"It's the only way."

Erik growled in frustration. He knew it was the only way, but that didn't make him any happier about it.

"Talk to her for me. Please, just... tell her how sorry I am," he growled, turning to Nadir. He shook his head.

"She's your lover, not mine."

Erik grumbled something beneath his breath.

"What?" Nadir questioned with a slight frown. Erik growled in agitation.

"I said she wouldn't mind being yours," he snapped. Nadir blinked.

"I rather doubt that, Erik. I saw this girl cry over you for months, I'm quite certain her affections are already engaged," he replied severely. Erik rolled his eyes.

"She said if I'd never existed, if I'd never taught her what it is to love and hate at the same time, then she probably would have loved you," he explained, his tone bitter with jealousy. Nadir was silent for a few moments.

"If she were anyone but _your_ Christine, I would have pursued her. But I know you too well, Erik, to do that," he replied simply, settling back on the sofa, and giving a tired yawn.

"Everyone loves her. Everyone wants to pursue _my_ Christine," he spat bitterly, toying with the edge of the mask covering half his face.

"Yes, stupid young boys who play with guns, stupid old men who've lost their sons, and obsessive, mad geniuses who think they're doing the right thing," Nadir replied dryly.

"It seemed like the only way," Erik scowled. Nadir chuckled.

"I don't blame you for thinking that, you've never done the right thing before, so it was quite likely you'd misunderstand the definition," he drawled in return. Erik glared out the window into the Parisian streets.

"I think she loves you. And you should know, if she does, I will kill you," he said finally. Nadir gave another dry chuckle.

"Perhaps she does. Perhaps I love her. I don't know, but you're only using it as an excuse for why she's not going to forgive you for this," he retorted almost boredly. Erik glared at him, prepared to call him out, prepared to lunge for his throat and strangle the life out of his lungs. "If I were in this position, Erik, I would forgive you. Because I know who you are, I know where you came from as well as you do, I know what you've lived through," he said quietly, before Erik could snap out an angry retort. "I know that to you, doing this for Christine, letting her live and letting her be free, it must have seemed like the ultimate sacrifice, it would have taken away a lifetime of pain and sin," he continued, meeting his friend's eye with sincerity and an openness that almost unnerved Erik.

"Don't pretend you know anything about who I am, Daroga," he growled, as if in defence.

"When Reza was dying I felt the same way you must feel now. Angry, regretful, bitter, righteous, terrified, and completely and utterly cheated for what was going to happen," he went on, as if he hadn't even heard him.

Erik said nothing. He didn't want to admit it was true. After what felt like an age of silence, Nadir finally spoke again.

"She feels the same way you do, Erik. Show her that you trust her, and she'll trust you," he commanded quietly.

Erik stood up.

"I'm sick of hearing your ramblings, Daroga. I'm going to talk some sense into the girl," he snapped, storming from the living room.

Nadir chuckled as he watched him go. Predictable.

* * *

By the time Erik returned to the bathroom, Christine had slipped out of the bath and was wearing a fluffy bathrobe, drying her long curls with a towel. She said nothing as he entered, but glanced to him in the reflection of the mirror.

He watched her, not saying a single word, his eyes taking in every line and curve that was displayed for him. She ignored his presence, and continued drying her hair. So heavy was the silence between them that Erik finally stepped forwards, and took the towel from her hands. She did not protest, but met his eyes in the mirror. He continued to say nothing as he gently ran the towel over her long dark curls, his fingers raking in her hair in a way that made her shiver. She sighed against his touch before he reached for the comb on the bench.

He dragged it through her hair slowly, with purpose, before he tied her long locks into a loose side-plait so they would not tangle overnight. When he was finished he lowered his head to the curve of her neck, and sucked on the flesh where her shoulder met her throat. She gave another shiver as he marked her flesh.

Marked. As if to remind her that she was his.

He removed his lips from her skin, and wiped the slight trace of saliva away with his thumb, before staring at the blushing flesh in the mirror's reflection. It would turn red and then purple as the days went by, ever changing. And when it was gone, he would mark her again.

"What do you want?" he asked her quietly, his voice a whisper against the shell of her ear. She trembled slightly.

"You. I just want you, Erik," she rasped in return. He nodded, winding his arms around her waist from behind.

"Forever?" he questioned. She shook her head.

"That's not possible. Forever is everything, past, present, future. I just need you now, and I need to know you'll be here tomorrow," she answered, her voice shaking with sincerity, tears once more filling her eyes. He nodded once more.

"I can give you that," he promised softly, his hands sliding down to her hips. "Now that I have you, now that I can hold you again, I'm never going to let you go again. Do you understand? The rest of our lives you'll be mine," he swore vehemently.

"That's all I ever wanted, Erik."

He buried his head in her neck once more, screwing his eyes closed tightly and breathing in her familiar scent.

"You don't believe me, do you?" he sighed, or rather rasped, against her skin. His voice was desperate, because he knew what he had to do, but he wished that he didn't have to. His hands roamed over her body, clutching at the curves that he had memorised so well.

"If you couldn't believe that I want to spend my life with you, then how can I believe you want to spend yours with me?" she challenged simply. He gave a stifled sob, and raised his hand to his mask.

He heard the sharp intake of her breath as she saw what he was about to do. His hand stilled over the porcelain covering his curse.

"No one else has _ever_ wanted me, Christine. I – I'm a monster, but you let me kiss you and hold you and love you as if I were a whole man," he cried pathetically against her.

"You _are_ a whole man, Erik. You're a beautiful, honourable man and I will _never_ want anyone else," she swore, realising what he was going to do, knowing what it meant to him.

Slowly he began to pull the mask away from his face, keeping his eyes closed tight. He didn't want to see her face twisted with disgust; he didn't think he could bear it. He shivered as the air hit his deformity, scars that had caused him a lifetime of pain and rejection.

She was silent, but after an age he felt her gentle hands push his hair away from his face. He clenched his jaw and pulled away so her flesh was not connected to his, he knew what was going to follow; he knew she was going to ask him to put his mask back on. It was too much to bear, even for someone even as strong and brave as his Christine.

And then, suddenly... he felt smooth lips kiss flesh that no human being had ever even touched. He trembled with disbelief, and slowly opened his eyes to see his little Christine perched on the edge of the water basin so she was tall enough to kiss him. Her hands slid across his chest and over his neck to cup his cheeks, as she peppered small kisses all over his face, neither favouring nor excluding his deformity.

"How can you _kiss_ it?" he questioned with complete disbelief. She leant away from him slightly, meeting his eyes.

"Because it's a part of you. It's _my_ part of you. It's the part that you hide and didn't think anyone could love," she almost breathed, her voice was so gentle. He looked at her incredulously.

"You shouldn't have to degrade yourself. You shouldn't have to love an old, deformed madman who only causes you pain," he insisted, his voice choked. She gave a soft smile, and he thought she meant it.

"I chose you. You don't need to worry about why or how, all you need to know is that I love you, and I'm not going to stop," she said simply, pulling him into a tight embrace. He sobbed into her shoulder. He felt exposed, vulnerable and ugly, but she didn't care.

"I want to marry you," he said, his voice muffled with her robe and damp hair, but he knew that she heard.

"We can do that."

"Tomorrow. Marry me tomorrow, please. I need you to be mine," he begged, his hands tightening around her waist. She nodded against him.

"Alright, _mon ange_. We'll do that," she whispered.

"And when this opera is over, we'll go. We'll go back to the castle and I'll never have to lose you again," he insisted decidedly. Christine clutched him tighter to her.

"It's a deal," she swore. He pulled away from her slightly, his head lowered so his dark hair fell forwards, concealing part of his disfigurement. She gently wiped the tears away from his skin.

"We'll take your things and go back to my apartment. I'm not sharing you anymore," he said firmly. She smiled, and nodded.

"I'll get everything now," she assured him, sliding off the bench. Before she could leave the bathroom he pulled her to him and pressed a firm, passionate kiss to her lips. She responded with fervour until he pulled away, breathing harshly against her mouth.

"Hurry," he murmured simply, before squeezing her hand tightly. She slipped from his grip and out of the bathroom, before going to her bedroom.

Erik stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He hated mirrors, even when he wore his mask. He traced the disgusting bumps and dips of his face. He couldn't understand how she had touched his disfigurement, how she had kissed the flesh of his face, and how she still loved him.

He silently restored his mask and entered the living room, where Nadir seemed to be just dozing off. He looked up at Erik, and nodded, as if complete understanding had passed between the two.

A minute or two later Christine had emerged with a carryall filled with clothes, shoes and everything she felt she needed. Erik took the bag from her and swung it over his shoulder.

"Give me a minute with Nadir, Erik, please," Christine said to her lover quietly. He looked between the two with suspicion, but nodded, and quietly left the apartment.

Nadir sat up as Christine sat down on the sofa beside him. It felt like an age before either of them spoke.

"I suppose I should return to Iran," Nadir said suddenly. Christine turned to him with pleading eyes.

"Don't, please," she practically begged. He gave a weak smile.

"It was me who left him, you know. We were friends, but when my son died, I stopped talking to everyone I had once loved," he explained to her sadly. She nodded.

"I'm sorry. It must have been awful for you," she murmured with true sincerity. He shrugged.

"It was a long time ago. I need to move on," he said simply. She reached for his hand, and raised it to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to his skin. It was smooth beneath her lips, smoother than any skin she knew.

In a minute she shifted closer to him, and then pressed her lips to his. He seemed surprised, but responded with a gentle, tender kiss that might have, in another life, made her love him. He broke their momentary contact, and with a smile that put light into his dark eyes, lowered her head slightly. He pressed his mouth against her forehead, not so much a kiss but more of a goodbye. Which was absurd, because it wasn't really goodbye, not at all. It was Nadir moving on from something that had once held him, but now would not.

"Thank you. For everything. And I think he does love you, very much," she practically whispered. Nadir's eyes crinkled slightly as he smiled, one hand cupping the side of her face.

"Not as much as he loves you," he assured her. She blushed, and nodded.

"And I love you. But not as much as I love him," she swore. He chuckled.

"Well, that doesn't surprise me," he smiled, before pulling her close to him for a warm embrace. "Look after him, and make sure he looks after you. I'll be round to see you as soon as I can," he swore, pressing one last kiss to her dark curls before releasing her.

She slipped out of the apartment as silently as she had slipped into his life. Nadir watched her go with a surprisingly light heart.

He did not need her to love him with the ardour that she loved Erik. It was enough for him that she had been born, that she had existed in the same world as himself, so that losing her was no more painful to him than the realisation that he'd never had her. No, she would survive in him by the simple fact that it could have been, but wasn't.

And that was enough, for him.

* * *

Erik glanced up as Christine slipped into the hallway. He looked at her with slight pain in his eyes, and nodded. She reached for his hand – he understood. He knew what had passed, he knew what it meant and he knew that he never needed to ask about it, because she loved him and only him. What she had done for Nadir, by kissing him, was an act of mercy to both the Daroga and herself. So he pressed a small kiss to her forehead, and led her down the hall, down the stairs, and into the brisk Parisian night, not even a twinge of jealousy in his heart.

**A/N: I think this is probably my favourite chapter. Well, it's certainly up there. I love Nadir; it wasn't until I wrote this chapter that I realised who he really was, and he leapt out at me without my influence, really. So I went back and edited everything I had already written before and after this chapter (I don't write linearly – I usually have my ending written months before my beginning). I know some people might not like what I've done here, but that's the way that it is. **

**So I've decided to learn German. I can't start classes at uni until next year, but if anyone could recommend a good website so I can start to get my head around the basics, that would be amazing. I know I should probably focus on finishing my French and being fluent in that before I move onto another language, but I've loved German ever since I was little and I'm really excited to learn it. Just randomly informing you all. **


	31. The Morning After

When Christine awoke the next day, she thought that she might, for the first time, have someone lying next to her. But sadly, she was wrong. She sat up alone and glanced around the unfamiliar room.

She and Erik had gone to his apartment the night before, eager to be alone and away from the concern of others. They had collapsed in a tired heap almost the moment they arrived – it was comparatively early in the evening, but they were both exhausted, and had no intention of staying up to discuss what had passed between them.

As Christine thought of the torment of the past few months, a fresh sense of anger and bitterness washed over her. She glanced around her to find some sign of Erik's departure. His apartment was lovely, but it wasn't the castle. As usual he surrounded himself with only the finest and most beautiful of furnishings, but it lacked the warmth she had grown to feel back at the castle, when she had been safe and none of this trouble had plagued her.

Deciding it was about time she rose, Christine slid out of the tall bed, swaying unsteadily on her feet. She huffed – she still felt so weak. The past few months had certainly put a physical toll on her. Feeling a familiar sense of dizziness wash over her, she reached for the side of the bed to steady herself as her knees buckled.

Before she fell to the floor she was caught by large, firm hands around her waist. Erik lifted her back into bed, where she lay with a tired sigh.

"You're still weak," he reminded her, pushing her dark hair from her face with evident concern. She rolled her emerald eyes at him. He was fully dressed, and looked like he had been up for some time.

"Take the mask off. I don't like you wearing it around me," she frowned, reaching for his face. He winced as she pulled it off and placed it on the bedside table. His eyes were screwed shut – she knew it would take time for him to accustom himself to not wearing it around her. "Lay down with me?" she requested, feeling too exhausted to attempt getting out of bed again. He smiled, and slid down next to her, leaning back against his elbows so he could look at her clearly. "Does it hurt?" she asked him curiously, gently stroking his skin. He shrugged.

"Sometimes," he admitted. "But that's my doing. Wearing a mask doesn't help it, although there's nothing else that can really be done," he explained. She nodded thoughtfully.

"It's not as bad as you think, you know," she assured him. He rolled his eyes.

But in truth, it wasn't. The skin was marked with a vibrant port-wine stain, and there were certain uneven bumps and craters which seemed unnatural, but it wasn't... disgusting. It just took a few moments to accustom oneself to.

"You're perfect. You can't say that," he retorted pointedly. She took her turn to roll her eyes.

"You're being ridiculous, Erik," she sighed tiredly, sinking back into the bed and muffling a yawn against his shoulder.

"Still tired?" he questioned with surprise. She nodded against him.

"Mm. I haven't been sleeping well," she stated, although he must have known that.

"Christine, it's seven o'clock."

"Too early."

"In the evening. You've been asleep for... well, almost sixteen hours," he said, with obvious concern. She yawned.

"Well, I'm going to sleep for another sixteen then," she decided firmly, snuggling into a warm, comfortable crevice by his side.

"You have to eat."

"I'll eat when I wake up."

Erik gave a frustrated sigh.

"So I'm not allowed to take care of you?" he questioned, sounding rather disappointed. She gave a 'hmm' of reply.

"I'm sleepy, Erik," she muttered, when her thoughts were clear enough. She just wanted to rest, that was all...

"Christine, you need to eat," he frowned. She slid one thigh over his leg, and tugged the blankets of the bed up to cover her body.

"Later. When I wake up," she yawned, feeling on the brink of slumber. Erik gave an annoyed sigh.

"You've slept all day."

"Erik, I'm tired. Can we have this conversation later?" she moaned with slight annoyance, burying her head against his chest. He frowned, and sat up a little.

"Are you... alright? I don't think it's natural to sleep that long," he questioned warily. Christine scoffed.

"I'm surprised you can stay awake, you can't have been sleeping well either," she murmured against his shirt. He shrugged.

"I don't need sleep. Just music, and you."

"Well I _do_ need sleep, and I could use some right about now," she retorted with obvious irritation. Erik sighed.

"Alright, sleep. But we'll talk when you wake up," he said firmly. Christine didn't reply before she fell almost instantly into an exhausted slumber.

Erik, for his part, was more concerned that he was irritated. After so many months being separated from her, to be able to hold her in such a way was a wonderful feeling. He lay there awake, hardly blinking as he committed the sight of her curled by his side to his memory.

When Christine awoke it wasn't until the late evening, by which time Erik as gone once more. She gave a frustrated growl as she sat up – she felt like she would never know the feeling of waking up in his arms.

As if he had heard her discontent, the gentle melody from the other room that had awoken her silenced, and Erik appeared in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest, his mask once more covering his face.

"She arises," he drawled with a small smirk on his lips. He looked devilishly attractive and casual, his shirt not even buttoned up and his trousers hanging loose on his hips, and despite her anger for the past few months, Christine couldn't help but find it a very handsome picture. She had missed the excited thrill in the base of her stomach that he always incited in her.

"Forgive me for being tired," she returned with a hint of challenge, sliding off the bed. Erik stepped forwards, as if concerned, but she did not feel a wave of dizziness overcome her as she had before. "Do you have anything I could eat? I'm feeling quite hungry," she admitted almost sheepishly. Erik nodded with a smirk.

"I thought so. I have some light things, bread and such, but I could go fetch something else if you wanted," he offered, looking very much as if he would like to reach forwards and hold her, but she was out of his reach.

"No, it sounds wonderful," she assured him. Erik smiled and let out a relieved sigh.

"Uh, the bathroom is through there if you want to freshen up, and, uh, some of your clothes from the castle are in that wardrobe," he informed her, gesturing at two doors in the room. She raised a brow as she crossed to pull open the armoire. In it she found her favourite pieces from her old wardrobe, and pieces that evidently Erik had liked as well.

"So you were intending on me coming here anyway?" she questioned. He shrugged, somewhat awkwardly.

"I hoped. I learnt a long time ago not to expect," he answered with slight bitterness. She lowered her gaze, feeling rather ashamed of herself for evidently causing him such painful memories. Her anger was not so great that she didn't realise the pain he had gone through in his life.

"Oh. Well, uh... I'll just change. I'll only be a minute," she murmured, taking out a simple white frock before slipping into the bathroom.

When she returned, Erik was in the sitting room with the curtains drawn open on the Paris night below them, stars twinkling in the dark blue sky. He appeared to have gone to a great deal of effort, the sofas had been pushed back and he had spread a white sheet over the carpet with an array of food; fresh pastries, bread, some hot chocolate in bowls and a few pieces of fruit, as well as some cheese. There was a bottle of wine and two glasses sitting there, and a dim gold light was cast over the scene with a multitude of small candles everywhere she looked.

"I can be romantic once in a while," he assured her with a charming smile as she breathlessly took her seat on the floor beside him.

"This is beautiful," she whispered in disbelief. He shrugged.

"It's the very least I can do," he assured her, pouring a glass of red wine for her.

"So this is your trick? Get me drunk and fool me into forgiving you?" she questioned with slight accusation when she accepted the glass. He shook his head firmly as he poured his own.

"Not at all. We need to talk about some things, I might as well make a romantic gesture while I'm at it," he defended. Christine smiled into her glass – she didn't want to admit that she found it very sweet.

They were silent for a few minutes as they ate, Christine with an appetite she had forgotten since coming to Paris. She caught Erik staring at her while she ate, which both unnerved and comforted her. It was good to know that he was there, but she almost felt like a stranger to him. For a moment her first instinct was to use 'vous' with him, it had been so long.

"So," she said finally, when her hunger had been sufficiently sated, and the silence was becoming too much for her. "I suppose you have something new to say?" she questioned. Erik shook his head.

"Not really. There's not much else to say."

Christine was struck by the honesty of his reply. She toyed with the edge of her bowl as he waited for her to respond, but she honestly had no idea what to say.

"Speak, Christine, for God's sake. I need to know what you feel," Erik begged after a long silence. She leant her head against the edge of the sofa.

"I feel... angry. And... _écartele_. I'm torn," she admitted softly.

"What happens next, Christine?" he asked her warily. She shrugged, and looked to him.

"I suppose I have to forgive you eventually," she murmured simply. He looked pained by the resignation of her words.

"I mean... with the opera. With the theatre. With that boy of yours," he clarified with slight accusation. Christine sighed as she reached for a grape and rolled it over her tongue, the flavour mixing with the wine that lingered in her mouth.

"I want to see it to the end."

"As do I, but we might not have that option," he reminded her. "They're planning something. I know they are, they want to get rid of me for once and for all, and I don't want to lose you, not now when I finally have you back," he insisted firmly. She shook her head.

"Don't worry about that. You won't lose me – not unless you're stupid and put yourself in unnecessary danger," she frowned, annoyed by the very suggestion.

"Then we'll leave on closing night. They won't risk losing any funds from their opera, and we return to the castle," Erik decided. Christine nodded in agreement, and took another mouthful of wine. "And what about... the other thing?" he questioned with slight hesitation.

"What thing?" she frowned in confusion. He looked rather nervous for even bringing it up.

"I said something last night that you appear to have forgotten," he hinted. She cast her memory back, and shook her head.

"I don't understand."

"I said I wanted to marry you," he reminded her with an expression of mild indignity. Her mouth formed a slight 'oh'.

"Well... uh, I thought we couldn't," she murmured, feeling herself blush.

"I went out while you were sleeping. I spoke to some people at _la mairie_, as long as I can get Nadir and Marie to verify my 'Romani' status then I don't need a birth certificate, just my name, and you'll still be entitled to your inheritance," he explained, casting his eyes nervously across the room as if he were ashamed.

"So you have to claim you're a gypsy so we can marry?" she exclaimed. He nodded.

"I don't mind, it's the only way without me becoming a part of the government system. I want you to be my wife, Christine," he said firmly, reaching for her hand. He entwined his fingers within hers. "We can marry as soon as you want. There's talk about rising the marriageable age to eighteen, though," he added.

"I think I would like to get married to you," she smiled, raising his hand to her lips and pressing her lips gently against his skin. He sighed at her soft touch, and they were silent a moment, before a dark expression crossed his face.

"And the boy? What should we do about him?" he practically growled, suddenly tightening his hold on her hand. She shook her head.

"I don't know. I don't want to keep pretending I don't despise him anymore. I didn't have the energy before to hate him, but now I want him out of my life, away from me, or I don't trust myself," she insisted firmly.

"I'm not exactly fond of the boy, but he worries me. He could do something stupid again, and if he does, Christine, I will kill him," he assured her with a frightening intensity. She nodded almost fearfully.

"I don't want you to kill someone."

"You know I..." he looked awkward and avoided her eyes. "I have killed before. I killed Javert, and I designed weapons when I was a part of the guerrilla force that killed people," he admitted ashamedly. Christine sighed, and closed her eyes.

"I know you've killed. I know you've made mistakes."

"Mistakes that cost people their lives."

"How many people did you kill yourself, Erik?" she demanded.

"One."

"You didn't kill people when you were... a terrorist, or whatever you were?" she questioned, with slight surprise. It was much better than she had hoped. He shook his head.

"That wasn't my job. I designed weapons, made ambushes and kidnapped people. Killing was another boy's job," he shrugged. Christine cast her eyes to the window and nodded.

"Nadir explained some of this. I understand. I don't approve, but I don't think you've known any different through your life," she murmured. She couldn't believe the words that came out of her own mouth, a few months ago she would _never_ have forgiven a murderer for killing someone – who _was_ she?

"Well – if your boy tries to intervene once more, I will do something you certainly don't approve of," he muttered curtly, lowering his glass of wine. Almost unconsciously his hand rose to his chest.

"I almost forgot you were shot!" she exclaimed, shifting her position so she could sit nearer to him.

"I haven't," he replied bitterly, as her hands reached for his shirt. She pushed the soft cotton aside wordlessly to expose a scar of twisted flesh over his heart.

"Oh, Erik..." she murmured sadly, running her fingers over the pinkish flesh. He winced slightly, and she pulled her hand away. "I'm sorry," she squeaked shamefully. He shook his head.

"No, don't be. Sorry, it stings a little sometimes," he apologised, reaching for her hand, and placing it at his chest once more, sighing with the feel of her hands on his skin.

"Were you in a lot of pain?" she questioned softly, tracing other scars that had covered his chest.

"Yes, I suppose. But only because all I wanted was you there with me," he admitted, leaning back against the sofa, tilting his head back and closing his eyes as Christine's fingers passed over a long scar down his side.

"I keep forgetting that you must have been in pain, too," she murmured. He shrugged.

"It was my fault."

Christine slowly slid her hands away from Erik's body. She was finding it difficult to know where things went from that moment on. She wanted to kiss him and hold him and touch him, she wanted to feel the fire that he had made her feel before they were taken away from each other, but she felt so _angry_ with him.

"I don't need you to forgive me yet. You can love me and hate me at the same time, I've hated you for longer than I've loved you," he informed her suddenly.

"I don't understand," she murmured with a frown. Erik shrugged without opening his eyes.

"Yes you do. You said it last night, when you were shouting at me. That I taught you to love and to hate at the same time," he reminded her.

Christine cast her mind back to the night before. It was a sea of words and emotions, it felt like a dream. The only real things she could feel was the resonating phantom pain from their separation, and the familiar burning glow from his presence beside her. She wasn't even aware of the things she said; it was all a blur for her.

"I hated you because of what you were. I saw someone who had a voice as pure as mine without my curse," he began thoughtfully, as if he were discussing the weather. "You were a perfect, innocently beautiful creature with the most incredible gift. I had always thought that such a gift came at the cost of something – for me, beauty, but you had that too," he almost drawled with slight lingering bitterness. "It wouldn't be possible for me to love you without hating you, not in the way that I love. I think you're beginning to feel that too. We're twin self-destructive creatures, Christine," he informed her softly, raising his head to look at her with complete adoration, and a slight hint of jealousy.

Christine considered his words with a slight frown. Perhaps the fact that she found it so difficult to forgive him for what he had done stemmed from the fact that she loved him so very much. She sighed at the thought – she just didn't know anymore. It was all too difficult; she was too overcome with the pain of the past few months and the sudden joy at having him back.

"My point is that you don't need to forgive me yet. But it's not fair to keep a distance between us, as if you needed to prove something to yourself," Erik said suddenly, interrupting her thoughts. She raised her head and looked to him with a rather lost expression.

"I don't know what to think anymore," she confessed softly. He nodded, and sat up, winding his arms around her waist.

"Then don't think."

The kiss he bestowed upon her lips was like the tidal wave of their months of separation. No matter her anger she couldn't help but shiver with the intensity of his touch, not after she had been so long without it. She wound her arms around his neck and into his dark hair, before one hand crept over the mask that covered his face. He winced slightly as she pulled it from him, but that wince turned into a shudder of unfamiliar sensations when her mouth pressed against the twisted flesh.

"Christine..." he growled dangerously as her hand slid across his bare chest, slender fingers stroking invisible patterns over his scarred flesh.

"Am I hurting you?" she murmured against the side of his neck. He made a sound that sounded vaguely like a scoff.

"No teasing. If you knew what was best for you, you'd stop kissing me," he murmured. She moved her lips to his shoulder, intent on rediscovering the body that she had barely begun to learn months ago. She was in love with every line and curve of his form, there was such a noble, princely quality to it, as if he were built by angels to reflect all that was beautiful in the world.

She trembled with the realisation that she _had_ been intimate with him over those long and painful months, despite their separation. While she had been crying out for him, he had loved her almost every night. The pleasures she had thought were only phantom memories from that one night where their bodies and souls had joined beneath the sheets of his bed were not mere fantasies, but the reality of his desperation to have her, to calm her nightmares.

"I'm warning you, Christine. I don't want to push you, but you're not making it easy for me," he growled severely when her mouth moved to his neck.

"Who said I didn't want you to push me?" she challenged, removing her lips from his skin for a moment and meeting his eyes. He grunted something indiscernible, and within a second one arm slid against her backside, and practically flipped her on her back, pressed beneath him.

"God, I've missed you," he sighed against her mouth.

"Well then, don't leave me again," she returned, before her words were silenced with his lips crushing against hers.

* * *

"I can hardly believe it."

Meg looked up suddenly when she heard the distinctly male voice of Nadir coming from the apartment she and her mother shared. She stopped her march and stood silently outside the door, a sudden sense of curiosity filling her.

"You saw it, Nadir," came her mother's voice in response. "I'm only surprised _la mairie_ let them marry. I pity Erik, having to take Romani status, but I suppose it was the only way," she sighed.

Meg's eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. No, they couldn't be talking about... _Erik_!

"Christine looked wonderful. I know it's only been a few days, but she seems so much healthier already," Nadir commented, his voice sounding tinged with pride.

"I think married life will suit her. I just hope he doesn't drive her mad – you know what he's like," Marie Giry laughed in return. Meg crept closed to the door, a million thoughts running through her confused mind. What was going on?

"Did they mention any plans to you?" Nadir questioned curiously.

"Nothing in particular, but I think they're staying in Paris until the production is over. I know they both want to see it to the end," she replied. Meg could hear the sounds of tea being made from their small kitchen as the two spoke.

"I don't know if that would be wise. The boy is up to something. I wouldn't put it past him to do something completely stupid," he said with concern.

"Stupider than shooting Erik?"

"Yes, rather," Nadir chuckled. "I'm impressed with Erik's control. The old Erik would have strangled him before he even fell to the floor, evidently Christine has somehow turned him around," he continued.

"I just can't believe they're married. _Erik_, a husband! And Christine, I still think of her as that broken down young girl; she's taken on a new life," Marie sighed fondly.

"I never thought I'd see either of them smile. I think I lost all hope for Christine."

"I always knew she was strong. And she's such a beautiful young woman when she smiles," she replied with soft elation. "And I can't believe Erik! Could you ever imagine him being so sweet and affectionate to any other human being?" she questioned incredulously.

"I know, it seems rather incredible," Nadir chuckled, before Meg heard the sounds of someone rising from a chair. "Well, as Erik constantly forgets, I have a job, and must get back to it, and I can imagine you need to return to the theatre now. You're working on having _Hannibal_ running at the same time as _Don Juan_, right?" he questioned.

"Yes, it gives Christine a nice break, at least," she replied, and the sounds of mugs being collected and placed in the sink reached Meg's ears.

"They love each other, Marie. If nothing else, they have that," he assured her.

"I know. It's just... She's so young. She's not even eighteen yet. I've known her since she was a baby, Nadir. It's hard to imagine her married," she sighed.

"I've known Erik for a good twenty years or so. It's hard for me too," Nadir laughed. "They'll be fine. Good day, Marie," he said finally.

Meg glanced around in fear as she heard the sounds of him making to leave the apartment. She scrambled down the hall to the elevator, and pressed the button. The doors opened just before Nadir appeared in the hall, and she walked away from them, as if she had just arrived.

"Oh, good afternoon, Meg. I believe your mother is leaving for the theatre now," he smiled when he spied her coming up the hall.

"Oh, thank you, Monsieur Kahn. I just came over to fetch her," she replied, giving her most winning smile. "So, no word from Christine? Mère wouldn't tell me where she's disappeared to," she commented, trying to sound casual.

"She decided that it's time she has her space. She'll be staying with me for a while, to focus on her music more. You know how committed she is," he informed her almost patronisingly, patting her on the shoulder. "Alright, I'd best go. I'll see you later, Meg," he said finally, before nodding and walking past her in the hallway.

When he was gone, Meg did not walk back towards the apartment. She stood in silence for a moment, her mind processing the new information she had just been given.

"Damn you, Christine Daaé," she practically growled beneath her breath.

It wasn't fair that she got everything she wanted.

**A/N: I am SO looking forward to my week off of uni for the Easter break. Seriously. I'm all giddy with the thought of it even now; I'm too excited to study for my test tomorrow (French dictation – bleurgh), which means I'll probably have to wake up really early tomorrow to study and then I'll be exhausted at work tomorrow night... BUT THEN I'M FREE FOR A WEEK! HOLLA!**

**I don't even know what 'holla' means. I think it's a register of one's enthusiasm. I hope it is, or I must look like an idiot...**


	32. The Breakfast

"My... _wife_," Erik said slowly, rolling the words over his tongue with a smirk. "Romni. Manželka. Femme. Frau. Moglie. Feleség. Kari. _Mine_," he continued, tracing his hand over Christine's uncovered thigh. She laughed, and leant forwards, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth.

"It's very reassuring to know you don't just view me as a possession, Erik," she teased. He rolled his pale eyes.

"Of course I do. I'm charming that way," he teased, rolling her over so she lay on her back, half her body twisted in the silk sheets of his bed. She sighed dreamily as he settled himself atop her, covering her neck and shoulders with kisses.

"Do we have to leave this apartment? Ever?" she questioned. He shook his head.

"No. Never. We'll stay in bed till we die of starvation," he decided, the tone of his voice revealing he wouldn't mind that at all. She laughed against his arm.

"Erik, that sounds a _little_ impractical," she said sternly. He scoffed.

"We still have a long way to go before starvation, Christine, don't worry," he assured her, pressing another kiss to her shoulder.

"And what about your opera, maestro? I have a performance tonight, did you forget?" she questioned with a raised brow. He hummed thoughtfully.

"We can leave the bedroom for that. I fully intend on watching every performance, my dear, so we'll have to leave the apartment a few times a week. See? Starvation won't be a problem," he decided.

"Oh, good, you've got it all settled," she laughed.

"Precisely."

"I have to get out of bed, you know," she informed him. He scoffed.

"No you don't."

"I need to have a shower before –"

"I'll join you."

"Erik!" she laughed, sitting up. "I need to have a shower before Nadir comes over for breakfast. And I want to visit Madame Giry today. We haven't stepped foot out of the apartment for three days," she scolded, but her eyes were still dancing with amusement, making it clear she wasn't angry with him.

"Oh, she called, you know. Madame Giry. I forgot to mention it," Erik said suddenly as Christine slid out of bed and slipped on her dressing robe. She turned to him with a frown.

"Let me guess, it was a few days ago?" she accused. He smirked.

"Guilty as charged. You were having a bath, which I joined, if you recall," he replied, raising his hands as if in surrender.

"Erik, you're impossible!" she huffed, crossing to the phone. She dialled Madame Giry's apartment and poked her tongue out at her husband, who was giving her a look that voiced his desires rather obviously. "Madame Giry? It's Christine. I'm sorry I didn't call earlier, _someone_," she glanced pointedly to Erik, "didn't give me the message. I was going to come over this afternoon, though," she said, when she heard the woman greet her on the other line.

"Raoul has been calling and coming over. I told him you've been either out or asleep. I think he's suspicious, Christine," she warned.

Christine sighed, and ran a hand through her dark hair.

"I thought that would be the case. I'll talk to him tonight; I assume he'll be at the opera?"

"I think so, my dear."

"Well, I'll... tell him something. Thank you, Madame Giry."

"How does married life suit you, Christine?"

"Ah, I haven't seen a huge variety of aspects to marriage, as of yet," she laughed.

"I've shown you _quite_ a variety of aspects, woman," Erik called from the bedroom as she strolled through the luxurious apartment.

"Tell Erik I heard that, and he needs to watch his manners," Madame Giry replied sternly, but Christine could hear the amusement in her voice. "I should let you get back to him. I'll see you this afternoon, Christine," she finished, before they gave their goodbyes and hung up.

"Erik, she heard that little remark and she thinks you need to pay better attention to your manners, and I happen to agree," Christine scolded, stepping back into the bedroom. Erik now stood by the window, his dressing robe tied loosely around his waist. He turned and smirked.

"I've never had manners, Christine, and I'll never learn them. Care to allow me to demonstrate another 'aspect' to you, my dear?" he suggested cheekily. Christine rolled her eyes and put the phone down, walking into the bathroom without another word. Erik chuckled, and moved to join her, before he heard the click of the lock. "Christine, that's really not playing fair!" he called bitterly.

"Come in and I'll wash your mouth out with soap. Go clean up before Nadir gets here," she commanded simply. Erik scoffed, and strolled over to the window. The morning was cold and foggy, winter officially having arrived. Soon it would snow, and snow meant Christmas. He had never celebrated it before, but he couldn't help but wonder if it meant anything to Christine.

He was jarred from his senses by the sound of the intercom. He didn't bother listening, he knew it was Nadir, so he pressed the entry button and strolled over to the kitchen to fill the kettle.

"Good morning, Erik," Nadir greeted, stepping into the apartment with a cheerful smile.

"Daroga, it's good to see you," he nodded, barely even glancing over to him as he moved over to the cabinet.

"Where's the wife?"

"Showering."

"Locked you out?"

"Apparently she doesn't appreciate my sense of humour," he shrugged, pulling a tin of rich Brazilian coffee down from the shelf.

"Married life?"

"I suddenly believe in an institution that means I can lie in bed all day with a woman that can now be recognised as mine," he replied with a smirk. Nadir glanced around the apartment.

"Can I sit, or will I impregnate myself?" he questioned dryly, gesturing to a chair by the dining table.

"Help yourself, but if you're worried, stay out of the living room," he suggested, his eyes flashing teasingly. "And the music room. And the bathroom. Oh, and there," he listed, gesturing to a section of wall by the front entry. Nadir raised a brow.

"You're joking, right?"

"I never joke, Daroga. Well, I did earlier, about having a sense of humour. I don't have one, so Christine can't appreciate it," he smirked. Nadir rolled his dark eyes.

"Shut up. And fix your robe, I'm dangerously close to seeing something I have absolutely no desire to see," he instructed. Erik sniggered.

"Jealousy has driven the man wild!" he declared dramatically.

"Wild with _disgust_, more like. We're not having a competition, Erik, so stop gloating," he commanded.

"We're not having a competition because you know you would lose. Now excuse me, I'm going to pick that lock and grope my wife inappropriately in the shower," he announced, taking his coffee and strolling through to the bathroom.

"You're not wearing your mask," Nadir commented simply.

Erik froze, and his free hand went instantly to the side of his face.

"No, you don't need to put it on; I've seen you without it before. I'm just surprised, she convinced you to get rid of it?" he questioned curiously. Erik snatched up his mask from the bedside table where it sat and returned to the kitchen.

"Just when we're home. Alone," he muttered, fixing it on straight.

"Erik, I really don't care. Please, it's not as bad as you think it is," he assured him. Erik scoffed.

"But it's still disgusting. Don't you think it makes me ashamed to have a face like this when that perfect creature is near?" he snapped curtly.

"Christine's beauty is no reflection on your face, Erik. Just because _she_ is beautiful doesn't make you disgusting. She loves you, all of you. She must be honoured that you took it off for her, it shows that you trust her," he insisted.

"We made a deal for it, it's only partly based on trust," he replied simply, sipping his coffee.

"What did you get out of it?"

"I'll tell you when you're older," Erik grumbled. Nadir sniggered as they heard the shower turn off. Erik turned and reached over to close the bedroom door where the ensuite bathroom led off without a word before returning to the kitchen. His message was clear – for my eyes only.

"So? How are things?" Nadir questioned curiously.

"Perfect. She's... perfect. Nadir, do you celebrate Christmas?" he asked suddenly, returning to his chair.

"Yes. Because the birth of Christ is an integral part of my religion," he drawled sarcastically. Erik blinked.

"Is it?"

"I don't even _have_ a religion, Erik," he retorted with a roll of his dark eyes.

"Well you can't expect me to know that. It's just – Christmas is coming up, and I've never done anything before, but I think... I think it's one of those things Christine likes," he shrugged somewhat awkwardly. Nadir raised a brow questioningly.

"You could ask her, you know," he pointed out.

"I just... I want to be a good husband. I want to – to do things for her that make her happy. Things outside of the bedroom," he struggled to explain.

"You don't need to explain. I know. I've been married too, I understand perfectly," he assured him. Erik frowned at his cup of coffee.

"I want to do... couple things. Married people things. Married people celebrate Christmas, don't they?" he questioned thoughtfully.

"Some married people do," he smiled simply. Erik nodded slowly.

"I want to make Christine happy. After all I put her through, she deserves for me to make her happy," he insisted firmly. Nadir clapped him firmly on the back.

"You're getting the hang of it, my friend. You make a wonderful husband," he assured him.

"Hmm. I hope so. So what have you been getting yourself up to then, Daroga? Any lives you're ruining or buildings you're ripping off?" he questioned dryly. Nadir rolled his eyes.

"As polite as ever, Erik. I'm working on some commissions from here. I got a place over in Montparnasse, like a true bohemian," he explained with a shrug.

"I thought you hated France."

"I still do."

Erik chuckled. "Well, at least you've made your mind up about it," he muttered, finishing off the last of his coffee just as Christine bustled into the room.

"Nadir! Sorry, I was in the shower, I didn't hear you come in," she apologised, pulling him into a warm hug. She looked as beautiful as ever in a simple pair of denim jeans, a white skivvy and a chunky grey wool cardigan, her long dark hair tied into a loose bun at the nape of her neck.

"Hmm. I almost forgot what you looked like with clothes on," Erik commented thoughtfully. Christine rolled her eyes.

"You're not funny," she informed him pointedly, going to the fridge and pulling out a carton of eggs.

"See? She doesn't appreciate my humour. I'm concerned for her mental health," he announced. She scoffed, but they shared a small, playful smile that made it clear that their bickering was all harmless teasing.

"So, Christine, are you sick of him yet?" Nadir questioned, avoiding a glare from his friend.

"Hmm. I'm always sick of him," she laughed, winding her arms around Erik's neck from behind and ruffling his dark hair playfully. He winced as she spun back over to the bench.

"See? She manhandles me. I'm being abused," he muttered, straightening his hair with a frown. Nadir just laughed.

"I haven't seen you two so happy... ever. So married life is good, Christine?" he enquired. She nodded.

"Very good, so far. I've been pretending to be a housewife these past few days, it's lots of fun," she beamed, pulling out a frying pan.

"She refuses to let me get a maid for the apartment. She insists on either doing everything herself, or making _me_ do things," Erik hissed across the table.

"He didn't have a maid when he was living here by himself, I don't know why he complains. Did he not make you coffee, Nadir? Erik, you should be ashamed of your manners," she scolded, refilling the kettle.

"He could have made it himself," Erik defended.

"He's a _guest_," she insisted. He huffed.

"She has me completely under her thumb, of course," he muttered bitterly.

"Bien sûr!" she practically chirped. "I heard someone say Christmas when I was changing. Is this about Handel's Messiah? I heard they do it every year at the opera house," she commented, as she began to break eggs into the hot pan.

"Yes, we were just discussing how best to kill of Carlotta so she doesn't destroy the arrangement," Erik replied simply. She scoffed.

"Well, as long as it's Carlotta I don't care. She still death-stares me whenever I walk past her," she retorted pointedly. Nadir sent his friend a pointed glare, as if to scold him for lying.

Erik simply shrugged. He had no intention of revealing his insecurities about his role as a husband to Christine. They continued to chat as she cooked breakfast, Erik occasionally making inappropriate quips, Christine scolding him and Nadir trying not to laugh.

It really was the most enchanting sight. He had known Christine as miserable and waifish for so long that it seemed quite incredible that she was happy, smiling and cheerful. And Erik... the Erik he remembered rarely smiled, _never_ joked, and despised any human contact. But this Erik was smiling, laughing, teasing, and pulled Christine into his lap to practically feed her breakfast. They were completely different people when they were around each other. It was an incredible transformation.

"So what's the plan for you two? Have you thought about what happens at the end of the production?" Nadir questioned curiously. Erik shrugged, but Nadir could see his grip tightening around Christine's waist.

"Well, I don't know. I'd rather go back to the castle, actually. Erik says I still have a lot to learn about singing, and I can go back to the theatre in a year or two. I still want to go to university, though," Christine answered, sipping her bowl of hot chocolate. The slightest of frowns passed Erik's face, but it was gone in a mere moment. "And anyway, we have to think of some way to deal with Raoul. I'm worried about what he might do," she added with concern.

Nadir nodded. "I would be worried too. He's too foolish not to try something, and now that he knows about Erik still being alive he might try to finish the job up," he commented, glancing to his friend, who scoffed.

"No, he wouldn't, would he? We just need to talk to him, to let him see the truth, Nadir," Christine insisted with a frown. Erik pressed his forehead against the back of her shoulder, and suddenly looked a million miles away.

"Christine, would you mind giving me a moment with the Daroga? I have something I need to discuss with him. It's about your birthday, so you're not allowed to listen," Erik requested suddenly, flashing his wife a playful smirk. She rolled her emerald eyes.

"_Fine_, but only because we haven't had any fresh bread in three days and we're running low on food. I'll be back soon, and let you two discuss my present in secret," she acquiesced, jumping to her feet and practically skipping into the bedroom to grab a coat. Nadir sent his friend a questioning frown, but he was silenced by Erik's meaningful look.

Christine reappeared a moment later, bundled up for the chilly Parisian morning, with an empty woven shopping basket hanging on her arm. She grabbed her purse and kissed both Erik and Nadir before leaving, calling out her goodbyes.

"Erik, what's the meaning of this?" Nadir demanded the moment she was gone. Erik stared at the table with a pronounced from.

"She's too naïve. She genuinely thinks we can just convince the fop to leave her alone," he informed him with obvious disapproval. "She's too damn _nice_, that's the problem. If she weren't so sweet and trusting we wouldn't have this problem. I tried to bring the topic up –"

"I'm surprised you broke for air long enough," Nadir drawled. Erik rolled his pale eyes.

"Touché, Daroga. But the point remains – there's still at least one person who wants to take her away from me again, and I won't allow that to happen," he objected firmly. "Don't mention it to her, but I know André and Firmin are planning something. They've been conspiring with the boy and I need to know what they're up to. I'm going to keep up this 'Phantom' ruse for a while longer, at least until I know what's going on and how I can stop it," he added meaningfully. Nadir nodded.

"I think I can help you there. All three of them have been asking me some suspicious questions about your 'lair'. You'll be living here now?" he questioned. Erik nodded.

"Yes, I want Christine to have a semblance of normal life. I don't want her to live beneath an opera theatre, and besides, it's too cold and dank. Until she's healthy again I'm not doing anything to risk her," he said firmly.

"She looks healthier, though. Is she gaining weight yet?"

"A few kilos, not much, but I'd still like to see her put on another ten, at least. She's just not healthy, Daroga. I've never had to think of another person's health, it... worries me," he frowned, pushing around the egg on his plate.

"It's normal, Erik, to be concerned. You take too much on yourself, just give her time, she'll probably bounce back soon," he assured him with a laugh. Erik stared at him pointedly.

"She was very, _very_ thin."

"Yes, but she wasn't at the point where she was too thin to function, Erik. We didn't let her get to that point," he reminded him with an almost reproachable tone. Nadir certainly didn't like being blamed for all of Christine's trouble. "And she's getting better. She'll be fine, just give her some time to heal."Erik rolled his greyish-blue eyes.

"Hmm, easy for you to say," he muttered, before sighing. "What _does_ happen after the production? I want her to sing, but I don't want that boy running after her like a puppy. How do I tell her that I want to run back to the castle and not have to worry about all of this?" he questioned incredulously. Nadir shrugged.

"Well, what kind of life are you two going to lead? Is she going to stay an opera diva in the spotlight for all of Paris to see, or are you going to disappear into the South of France and have a normal life? Are you going to have children and –"

"Steady on there, Daroga," Erik warned. "I don't like children, you know full well. Don't go putting ideas into Christine's head about raising a family or any of that nonsense," he commanded sternly. Nadir laughed.

"Erik, she's a woman! She's a young woman who lost her parents years ago, she probably wants her own family someday," he reasoned. Erik frowned.

"Do you think so? Do you think she – she wants to have a child?" he questioned warily, wincing at the thought.

"Well do _you_?" Nadir asked simply. Erik stared at him blankly.

"Did you not hear me say that I don't like children?"

Nadir shrugged. "Well, I don't suppose you'd have ever thought about it before. I remember there was an incident that made it clear you didn't like crying babies, once," he reminded him. Erik rolled his eyes at the recollection.

They had met in the glorious palace of the woman who demanded merely to be addressed as 'Amardad' – a name which meant immortality. No one spoke of who she was, or how her husband was one of the most important politicians in all of the Middle-East, or of how with a single snap of her fingers she could have armies of thousands of men rise up to defend her honour. For if you spoke of these things you would find yourself in a rather dangerous situation.

Nadir had never thought he would find himself in such a place. He felt uneasy the moment he stepped through the gleaming white marble archway. He knew why he had been summoned, Amardad had brought him to her because he was commissioned by her husband to design a new government building nearby, and she didn't let her husband even breathe without a full investigation. Not that he knew, of course.

He'd been sweating throughout the entire meeting, absolutely terrified. He'd heard of her reputation, and he knew she was mad. She seemed to think she was living a thousand years earlier than what she was. She made herself a queen, sitting dramatically on a large throne-line chair in the centre of a long, gleaming marble room with finely dressed servants, all of whom were beautiful young men and women, fawning over her. She deliberately refused to communicate in Farsi – she spoke to him in calm, cool English so none of her servants understood.

She stared down at him with cold dark eyes that seemed to look right through him as he informed her of the proposed design, what it would look like, what its purpose would be, how much it was cost, why it was being built, how long would it take, every detail he could think of. All the while she had one bare leg slung over the shoulder of a young boy, in his mid teens, as he sat on the ground before her, his head lowered as he played with some sort of small... machine.

Nadir found the boy the most distracting of all. He was different to the others, his skin was perhaps a different shade and Nadir had caught glimpses of pale, charcoal blue eyes beneath his long dark hair which fell over his face like a mop. It was the mask, though, that confused him. A length of black silk tied to disfigure a quarter of his face. The boy said nothing, but Nadir was certain from the tilt of his head and his body language that he understood what was being said. The woman played with the boy as he spoke, running her long, beautiful hands through his dark hair, occasionally leaning forwards and kissing his neck or shoulders deeply, but the boy continued to play with... whatever it was. He couldn't help but stare.

"You like my Khodadad? He's a gypsy," Amardad smirked, noticing the line of Nadir's gaze. He coughed nervously as the boy glanced up, glaring at the man before him with a cold sense of interest. "Boy, show him your toy," she commanded in Farsi, slapping him over the back of his head.

The boy, Khodadad, placed the... thing down on the ground and then kicked it over to Nadir wordlessly. He bent to pick it up with a curious frown. It was a small little piece of mechanics, a bit bigger than a cricket ball, made of brass and copper and steel. It looked like he'd taken bits of cutlery, clocks and engines apart to create it.

"You turn it," Khodadad said suddenly, in perfect English. Nadir glanced up – he was looking at him with a pointed expression. He then returned his eyes to the toy, and indeed, there was a small piece of clockwork. He turned it three times, and was startled to hear noise come from it. He peered inside the thing, only to be startled to see several small glass tubes with different levels of water, and as the little brass wheel spun, a different shard of copper tapped against each tube, creating some sort of musical melody.

"This is incredible," he muttered in disbelief.

"He's very clever. And he sings, too. That's why I call him 'Khodadad'. 'God's Gift', it means. He has a voice of angels, and it's nicer than the name he picked for himself," Amardad informed him smugly. Nadir passed the instrument back to the boy when it stopped playing.

"That's wonderful, child. You must be very talented," he complimented politely. The boy spat at him.

"I am _no_ child!" he snapped angrily, his eyes blazing. Amardad smacked him in the back of the head once more, and he growled, lowering his gaze back to his toy without another word.

"He hates children. All of them. He threw that thing at a woman who brought in her baby earlier, that's why he's fixing it," she explained with a laugh that rung out around the chamber. Nadir shifted nervously.

"W – Was the woman hurt? What about her child?" he questioned nervously. He didn't want to think of a woman and her baby being harmed by this... strange creature. He and his wife were trying to have a child.

"Of course not, but it wouldn't stop crying. And who are you to ask, anyway? Some sort of Daroga?" the boy snapped curtly, glaring up at him with his icy eyes.

"He has no manners. But he's clever, and he's a good lover and a beautiful singer. He's my favourite," Amardad smirked, leaning forwards and pressing another kiss to the side of his face. "He designs buildings, too, you know. And he's an excellent translator, he speaks almost every language I've ever heard of," she added laughingly.

"You design buildings?" Nadir questioned with curiosity. The boy looked up with a withering glare.

"Yes, and they're far more beautiful than _yours_. And they at least have secure foundations, unlike _that_," he spat, gesturing to the designs he held in his hand. "Get rid of him. He's done," the he said simply, turning back to his toy. Amardad laughed.

"Alright, but he must return to tell me of his progress. You'll have to put up with the Daroga again soon, Khodadad," she reminded him. He rolled his eyes. "Come again, Daroga," she smirked finally.

"She exaggerated the circumstances. I didn't just randomly throw something at some woman's baby," Erik snapped, returning them both to reality. Nadir chuckled.

"Well, you did spit at me when I called you a child. I just hope you wouldn't spit or throw things at any child of yours," he laughed. Erik scoffed.

"She's too young, and I've said it time and time again, I do _not_ like children. They're too stupid to do anything but babble and cry," he insisted firmly.

"So you don't want to have children? At all?" he questioned incredulously. Erik shrugged.

"I don't know. I've never thought about it. I never thought about marrying or falling in love, either. It's possible, but I very much doubt I'd ever be talked into it," he said simply.

"And what if Christine wants children?" Nadir questioned with a raised brow. Erik huffed.

"You're asking too many questions. I don't know and I don't care. All I want is some time with Christine before we worry about that sort of nonsense," he practically snapped, ending the discussion.

Nadir smirked into his coffee. He couldn't imagine Erik as a father, yet, nevertheless... it would be amusing.

Christine returned before he had a chance to tease him any further, in a flurry of fresh fruit, vegetables, bread and meat, and she was bustling around the kitchen, babbling at a million miles an hour, her eyes lit up brightly. It was a complete transformation from the miserable little waif Nadir had come to know so well over the past months.

But he rather liked this new, happy Christine. It was quite the improvement.

* * *

"You'll be wonderful tonight. I'll be watching," came a voice from behind as Christine sat preparing herself in her dressing room. She smiled as she felt Erik's arms behind her.

"I used to think that voice was an angel," she murmured with a sigh, kissing his wrist. He chuckled.

"Hmm, well, I did my best to make you think that," he retorted simply. "Unfortunately I won't be taking any of Piangi's parts tonight, my dear, but I'll be singing along with you from box five," he assured her, pressing his lips against her temple. She gave a soft smile.

"I'm happy, Erik. Really happy," she informed him suddenly. He chuckled, and rose to his feet.

"I'm glad you are. I'd best leave you, your makeup girl will be here any minute," he commented, making to step towards the mirror.

"Erik?"

He turned when he heard Christine call him softly.

"Yes, my dear?" he questioned. She was smiling.

"You are a good husband. And everything you do makes me happy," she assured him. The memory of his earlier conversation with Nadir swum up into his mind. He chuckled, and nodded.

"Thank you. That means a great deal to me," he muttered, stepping forwards and pressing a light, but purposeful kiss to her mouth, before smirking, and disappearing back behind the mirror with nothing more but a wink.

Christine smiled as she toyed with the red rose he had left her that night.

She _was_ happy.

**A/N: I like holidays. I like being able to get an appropriate amount of sleep. It's good. I should have more holidays. **

**So, happy Easter, peeps! **


	33. The Betrayal

It took things a little while to settle into a routine with Christine and Erik. Things were made complicated with her time at the opera and with Raoul. They had both agreed that it was best Christine went along with Raoul's illusions of an engagement, and on nights where she performed at the theatre she went out for a late supper with him, returning to Madame Giry's to find Erik waiting up for her in her room there.

But it wasn't as if Erik was happy with that arrangement. In fact, it infuriated him. He knew it was for the best, but he was not the kind of man who liked sharing what was his, even if it was only a mere façade to fool Raoul. Christine understood why she needed to pretend. Raoul would not settle for an explanation if she continued to refuse him, so by smiling occasionally and eating three or four meals a week with him he was harmless, and wouldn't do anything irrational, like blow up Erik's underground lair. It was only for the remainder of the production, they had all decided.

From there they didn't know what they would do. She and Erik both wished to return to the castle to work on her singing for another year or two, but they didn't know how they would be rid of Raoul, once and for all. She was hoping that by moving back to Southern France with Erik, Raoul would be able to see that she had made her choice. By that point, Erik would end his involvement with the Paris opera and they would both be free people. She would return to the opera world not as Mademoiselle Christine Daaé, but as Madame Christine Danté, and Raoul would have no claim over her.

But for Christine, she had never been happier than what she was with Erik at that time. They spent most of their days either lounging around in bed, or practising music in his apartment. Nadir visited every morning for breakfast, and they had dinner with Madame Giry a few times a week, but for the most part they were content to sit at home and just... be together.

"You don't regret that we can't exactly go out every night, do you?" Erik questioned curiously one night, as they lay curled up before the fire in the sitting room, Christine with her head on his lap, his hands entwined in her long dark chocolate locks.

"No. I love being here with you, all the time," she smiled simply, shifting against him to find a comfortable position. Erik glanced out the window.

"How is Handel's _Messiah_ coming along?" he questioned curiously. She yawned, and nodded.

"Mm. It sounds good, I think. But you've heard it, do you think it'll be ready for Christmas Eve?" she countered. He nodded.

"I think so. Have you... do you want to do anything for Christmas?" he asked thoughtfully.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you like Christmas, don't you?" he enquired, to which she nodded, and smiled.

"Oh yes. It's beautiful. I love the songs and the snow and the decorations and the food... it used to be my favourite time of year when I was a little girl," she grinned, her voice warm with memories. Erik nodded thoughtfully.

"We should... do something. Celebrate Christmas," he said decidedly. She glanced up.

"Have you ever done it before?" she questioned. He shook his head.

"Never. But – but it means something to you, so I'd like us to do something," he said simply. She gave a soft smile and bit against her bottom lip.

"That's a very nice offer, Erik, and it's sweet that you're thinking of me, but we don't have to," she assured him. He shook his head.

"No. I want to. So what do you do for Christmas? What's the protocol?" he questioned, as she settled back against him.

"Well... twelve days before Christmas my mother and I would spend a whole day decorating the house. We'd put up wreathes and tinsel and mistletoe, and we'd get a great big tree and I always got to put the star on top," she sighed dreamily, toying with the long, slender fingers of one of his hands. "And we would go out shopping months before to buy each other presents, mère and père would give me some money and I would go buy them things. Usually I bought mère a hair clip or something pretty, and I bought père rosin in a new shape every year," she smiled with a laugh.

"It sounds... pleasant enough," Erik conceded with a slow nod. Christine laughed.

"Really, Erik, I don't mind if we don't do anything. Christmas is more of a thing for children, and I'm grown up now," she insisted softly. Erik frowned slightly as he looked into the fireplace.

"I would like it if we could do something. I think I would enjoy that," he said suddenly. Christine gave a small, unsure laugh, and nodded.

"Well... alright, I suppose we could. What do you want to do?" she enquired, to which he shrugged.

"I don't know. I've not done anything like this before, so I'm looking to you for ideas," he said simply, absentmindedly running one of her long silken curls through his fingers.

"Are you alright?" she asked softly. He turned his eyes away from the flames, which were ravenously licking up the wood in the hearth, to glance down to her face. He forced a small smile.

"Fine, angel. I'm fine," he assured her insistently, before staring back into the fireplace with an impossibly sad expression on his stormy eyes. She had seen it once before, when he was kneeling before the fire in the library back in the castle. She wanted to reach forth and soothe that sadness, but she somehow felt... like she couldn't intrude upon it. As if it weren't her place, as if it were something private. She couldn't understand why she felt that, after all, he was her _husband_, but if there was one thing she had learnt from her separation from him for all those aching months; it was that she didn't know him, not really.

So she didn't press him. She knew that there was a whole other part of his life that she was not yet privy to, but she also knew that some day he would let her in.

"Well, we could have dinner with Nadir and Madame Giry for Christmas," she suggested suddenly. He looked to her with a raised brow, snapping out of his musings.

"Is Christmas usually celebrated in Islam, Christine?" he asked her dryly. She rolled her eyes.

"He doesn't even have a religion, he told me he didn't believe in any of it," she waved him off. "I think he'd like to celebrate Christmas, it's a time for family, Erik, and you two are as good as brothers, when you're not trying to kill him," she commented, her eyes twinkling teasingly. Erik scoffed.

"I have a wife, don't I? What more family do I need?" he retorted pointedly, softly stroking her long dark curls back as he gazed down to her.

"Christmas is a time for celebration with the people you love. As much as you deny it, you _do_ love Nadir, Erik," she said gently. He muttered something bitter beneath his breath and then turned his gaze out the window to the cold Parisian streets.

"Well then, we'll dine with the Daroga and Madame Giry for Christmas. It wasn't what I was thinking of, but I suppose if you wish," he sighed, giving a small shrug.

Christine couldn't help but give a soft smile. A few months ago he certainly would never had given in so easily. Did this mean he was learning the art of compensating with another human being? She hoped so, because she often worried about the combination of their stubbornness and the effect that would have on their marriage. She didn't want to argue with him all the time. She didn't want to argue with him at all, but she knew Erik; she knew it was inevitable that they would fight over just about anything.

"I think that would be nice, Erik. But as long as I'm with you, I don't care what we do for Christmas," she assured him gently. He smirked, and wound his hand into her dark hair.

"I like it when you're like this. Very... affectionate," he commented teasingly. Christine rolled her emerald eyes; he was certainly feeling rather arrogant that evening.

"I've changed my mind. I'd rather spend Christmas with Carlotta," she retorted simply. Erik laughed at her pointed tone, his eyes dancing with mirth that was seldom seen.

It was very... peaceful. That she lay with her head on his lap and that he was able to laugh with genuine amusement, it was such a pleasant and domestic scene that filled Christine's heart with a warm, golden glow just to contemplate it.

It was bliss.

She didn't know how it had crept up on her, but it was... genuinely _bliss_.

* * *

"This is ridiculous, monsieur," André despaired, pushing away the blue prints before him. "These plans were drafted a hundred and thirty years ago; they give no indication to the whereabouts of the Phantom's lair," he insisted.

"We just need Khan to show us where it is on the map," Raoul snapped angrily.

He was tired. Since opening night something had been wrong, he could sense it. This 'Phantom' business was getting too much for him to bear. The rational part of his mind could hardly believe it; he _saw_ Erik die, but now he was back, and no one was safe. He wanted to believe that it was simply the cruel tricks of stage hands, but he would never forget that voice, echoing around the walls of Christine's dressing room...

The Phantom was back, and Christine was in danger. The man was deranged, what would he do? He had already manipulated her into thinking he loved her; who _knows_ what he could be trying to convince her now in his spectral persona?

"We cannot be sure he even lives there anymore, monsieur," Firmin interjected.

"Gentlemen, can I remind you that this was _your_ idea?" Raoul snapped, beginning to pace the home study of monsieur André. They were not safe at the theatre. "We know he's there, always listening, always watching. And we know he lived there years ago, so it would make sense that this is where he remains," he continued briskly.

"But _where_?" André groaned, running his eyes over the plans once more.

"How would I know? This isn't my theatre," Raoul snapped. "You're too greedy. All you can think about is the damage that could come out of this, don't you realise Christine's _life_ is at stake?" he demanded angrily.

"We must speak to Khan again. He's our only hope of finding out where the Phantom lives," Firmin burst out suddenly, running nervous hands through his greying hair.

"Khan won't help us. You know he won't, he'd never approve of this," André threw back pointedly, sighing once more over the plans.

"Khan has Christine's best interests at heart, even though he'd happily whisk her away to Iran and never let her sing again," Raoul grumbled bitterly, throwing himself down on a chair beneath the large window that overlooked the dreary Parisian morning.

"We need _information_. The Phantom has contact with Christine; we know he does, so she might be able to tell us –"

"Don't be an idiot, André," Raoul snapped. "She still thinks he's a ghost, and that Erik _truly loved _her."

"We don't know enough to plan anything yet!" André threw back. "We need to know _more_, it's not like we can simply plant a bomb if we don't know where his lair is, or how to get him there!" he practically growled.

"Well we cannot alarm Christine! She's gone through enough without being harassed and used as bait!" the younger man objected.

"I – I agree with the Vicomte. She's worth too much to all of us to risk her," Firmin fumbled, growing ever more nervous. More notes had been arriving of late, criticising the theatre's handling of the new production, and of their new star.

"She's not a _commodity_, monsieur, she is my fiancée!" Raoul cried, his handsome face reddening with anger.

André and Firmin exchanged glances. Everyone knew that Christine Daaé would never marry the Vicomte. Everyone but Raoul himself, it seemed.

"Nevertheless, my dear Vicomte," André began with some hesitation. "We have barely any information about the Phantom, or his relationship with Mademoiselle Daaé."

"There is no _relationship_, only a madman tormenting an innocent girl!" Raoul barked.

"But – but we need to know if he _trusts_ her, if he'll follow her into a trap," Firmin explained weakly. Raoul scoffed.

"He's obsessed. He'll do anything to gain her affections," he drawled.

André glanced at Firmin, and the two exchanged a look as if to say that the Phantom was not the _only_ man who seemed to be obsessed with Christine Daaé.

"We need someone on the inside, monsieur. Khan will no longer assist us if he knows our intentions, and Madame Giry would never involve herself in any sort of conspiracy," André began again. "We still have several months; the gala is not scheduled till late February. There is time to plan, to gain information," he rationalised.

"I will speak to her. I will try to find out what I can," Raoul murmured, rising to his feet with a stormy expression on his handsome features.

"Vicomte?"

"I will not have her taken from me again, gentlemen. If upsetting her is the price for her freedom, then so be it," he sighed, straightening his expensive jacket. "I must leave. Contact me if you have any information, or I will be at the theatre tonight," he said finally, leaving the room without a word of goodbye.

"I'm starting to wonder if this plan is really going to work," Firmin muttered despairingly. André rolled his eyes.

"Unless you can suggest something else, we have to go to the theatre," he snapped, folding the blueprint and rising from his chair.

Firmin sighed.

He knew it would be the only way to catch the Phantom, but he had a sinking feeling that the 'only way' was going to end poorly for everyone.

* * *

"Mama, why doesn't Christine live with us anymore?" Meg asked her mother suddenly as they shared a light dinner before going to the theatre for that night's performance of _Don Juan Triumphant_.

"I've told you, Meg. She lives with Nadir now," Marie replied simply, taking in a mouthful of beef.

"But why? Why now? It doesn't make sense, Mama. After all, he's further away from the theatre," she commented. Marie slowly chewed her food, as if considering her response.

"Yes, but you must understand that Christine is still coming to terms with the past year," she said finally, her words carefully chosen. Marie didn't like lying to her daughter, but it was the best way for all, they had decided. "Nadir is her closest link to Erik, and she needs his support to complete the production," she explained.

"Then why does she spend some nights here, still?"

"Because it is easier for her to come here after each show and supper with Raoul. Why must you ask so many questions?" Marie almost snapped. Meg scowled.

"This is our home, mama. I don't like her here," she answered crossly.

"Meg! You two played together as children! She has suffered greatly this year, she needs our support!" Marie objected angrily. Meg stabbed a piece of potato moodily.

"I don't feel safe when she's here. And I think she sneaks Raoul back into her room, I sometimes hear a man speaking late at night," she snapped, knowing full well that it was not Raoul.

No, Meganne Giry was not stupid. She knew that Erik, the masked hero from her youth, was not dead. She knew that he was living in Paris with Christine. She was furious with her mother for lying to her, and she was furious with Christine for being the centre of attention when she wasn't suffering at all. She had the best part in _Don Juan Triumphant_, she had fame and fortune and the attentions of a rich and handsome Viscount, _and_ she had Erik! Not to mention Meg's own mother, who was always falling over himself to help her.

"You're being silly, Meganne. Finish your dinner and don't ask anymore questions," Marie insisted pointedly.

"I want to go live with dad. I'm sick of Christine being here," Meg snapped. Marie sighed.

"My child, I know it can be hard, sharing your life with another who is in need," she began tiredly. "But Christine _needs_ us; she needs our support and our care. You cannot imagine what has passed before this point," she said gently, reaching for her daughter's hand, but Meg pulled away.

"No. I don't care! She's selfish, she takes and she takes and she takes and she doesn't care about anyone else but herself!" she cried bitterly, throwing her knife and fork down on the table.

"Meg, that's not true. She always asks after you, she cares for you and doesn't understand why you dislike her so much!" Marie retorted, her eyes filled with anger and disgust at the behaviour of her daughter. "She's a good girl, Meg! I don't know why it upsets you!"

"It _upsets_ me because she has _everyone_ running after her to make things easier for her," she growled between clenched teeth. Marie scoffed.

"I thought perhaps you felt neglected, but never petty and jealous, Meg. I'm disappointed," she snapped curtly, rising from the table. "Finish your dinner and get ready to go to the theatre. No more talk of this," she declared.

Meg stabbed another potato, cursing beneath her breath.

So, her own mother was now on Christine's side.

Well, she would show her mother too. She'd show the lot of them; the world would see Christine for the lying, weak and talentless diva she was.

* * *

"Good evening, monsieur!" Meg smiled prettily as Raoul passed her in the hallway. He looked slightly perturbed and nervous, and was obviously making his way to Christine's dressing room.

"Oh, yes, hello, Mademoiselle Giry," he muttered, not even glancing at her. That made her feel slightly bitter, but only for a moment.

"Christine is changing now, and the costume maker is redoing some of her measurements. She shouldn't be too long," Meg commented. Raoul gave a disappointed sigh.

"Oh. I hope she remembers that we're to have supper this evening," he muttered, still staring down the hall.

"Of course she does, monsieur Vicomte."

"Well, uh, then. How have you been?" he asked, but from his tone it was clear he didn't care for polite necessities.

"I have been well, monsieur," she answered kindly.

"You may call me Raoul, Mademoiselle. Any friend of Christine's is a friend of mine," he replied, glancing at his watch.

"Are you in a hurry, Raoul?" Meg asked innocently. He gave a dry sort of chuckle, and smoothed back his lengthy dark blonde hair.

"No, Meg, I just don't like Christine staying in this theatre," he answered almost thoughtlessly, before blushing slightly, as if realising what he had let slip.

"Because of Erik, Raoul?" she questioned. He looked to her with suspicion.

"How do you know about _him_?" he asked, almost spitting out the word. She shrugged.

"I used to know him when I was a child. He was very close with my mother," she replied innocently. He still frowned.

"Do you know... any of what has become of him?" he asked with growing suspicion. Meg gave a thoughtful sort of sigh and tapped her lips, scrunching up her nose in an expression she knew made her seem sweet and innocent. She had been practising it in front of the mirror for half an hour before she came to the theatre that evening.

"Well... I know he's back, if that's what you mean," she said finally, with an almost casual tone. Raoul's eyes widened in surprise.

"How do you know this?" he demanded, keeping his voice low.

"Oh, mère never says, but I know he is. I heard her and Nadir talking," she explained simply.

"And what did they say?" he insisted with growing anxiety.

"Well, I know that Christine thought he was an angel. But I heard mère and Nadir say that they were married, and that they love each other," she explained, putting her hands behind her back and rocking on the balls of her toes in a gesture of childlike virtue.

Raoul opened his mouth and then closed it again in disbelief.

"A – Are you sure?" he practically croaked, his eyes watering.

"Oh, yes. They said he had to take Romani status so they could be wed," she assured him.

"But, that makes no sense..." he murmured softly.

"It could just be Christine's lies, monsieur. She loves attention," Meg threw in casually. Raoul shook his head.

"No, she's not like that," he snapped, wiping his eyes. "I – I think I must go home. I'm not feeling well. Could you tell Christine that I will call tomorrow?" he asked, his voice breaking as he spoke.

"Of course, Raoul. But I don't know if you could reach her, she doesn't live with us anymore," she explained lightly. Raoul looked to her in disbelief.

"But – but I always return her to your apartment!" he objected. Meg nodded.

"Yes, but she leaves the next morning. Mère says she's staying with Nadir, but I don't think she is," she informed him conspiratorially. Raoul nodded shakily, his face slowly draining of colour.

"I – I will still call, Mademoiselle Giry. I think we have a few things to discuss," he murmured. Meg smiled.

"Of course, monsieur. Raoul, I mean."

He gave one last nod before leaving hastily, wiping his eyes as he went.

Meg's smile grew slightly, and she gave a happy sigh.

Things were going to change. Christine wasn't going to get everything she wanted; not this time.

**A/N: Hmm. So things are getting interesting, huh? Thank you to all my lovely reviewers, you're so nice. I'm trying to update regularly with this story, but a lot of my assessments are coming up and I'm a bit swamped right now. But hey, only three years of this, right? Or four. Or five. **

**Oh, I went to a book launch yesterday, it was really interesting; met some writers, heard a bit about the publishers, listened to a reading, I felt like a proper grown-up :D At first I sort of figured 'Lordie, I really shouldn't be here, I'm not an intellectual or a scholar or anything', but I was surprised at how laid back it was. Anyhoo, I'll try to put an account of it up on my blog sometime this week... Tootles! **


	34. The Farsi Conversation

"So you have no idea why he didn't go?" Erik frowned as he poured himself a glass of wine. Christine sighed, and gave a weak sort of shrug as she began taking her hair out of its tight pins, leaning against the kitchen bench.

"I suppose he's growing sick of me. Good," she smiled, but there was still some worry in her emerald eyes. "No, Erik, I won't be able to hold it down," she objected, as he offered her a glass of wine.

"Are you feeling ill again?" he questioned with concern.

"A little. I just feel very... strange," she sighed, taking a seat at the kitchen table. "The costume designer had to alter my dress again. She says I give her more work than the entire chorus put together," she added with a small laugh.

"I'm not objecting. You could still stand to gain some more weight," he retorted, seating himself opposite her with his own glass of wine.

"You're only happy because most of it is going to my breasts," she drawled teasingly. He sniggered into his glass.

"Can you blame me? You have a very lovely figure, my dear," he chuckled, his eyes twinkling with desire. She scoffed.

"Hardly. I'm getting fat, it's making me slow. I keep falling behind in the dance routines," she scowled, picking at some of the bread and cheese that Erik had laid out for her. "It just seems out of his character. Raoul never cancelled on anything," she added suddenly, as if she had still been considering the issue throughout the conversation.

"The milksop probably realised that you despise him," Erik drawled bitterly. Raoul was still a sore topic between them. They both _knew_ that it made sense to let him continue living in his delusions, but neither could forget the pain he had caused.

"I wanted to tell him the truth this evening," she smiled weakly. Erik looked to her in alarm.

"What would possess you to do such a thing?" he demanded incredulously.

"No, not the _whole_ truth," she assured him. "I wanted to say that I couldn't forgive him for all he had done, and I didn't want to marry him. I want him to leave me alone," she explained, pressing her hand to Erik's arm to calm him.

"You cannot know how happy it would make me for you to say that to him," he sighed, entwining his fingers in hers. "But... they already suspect something. I know they do, I've heard them speak of their plans. We can't alarm them," he explained, but Christine could see it was breaking his heart for him to say such things.

"I don't think I can look him in the eye anymore, knowing that he tried to stop the happiness I feel now," she admitted. "I know it's selfish, but..."

"It's not selfish. I want to rip him apart, piece by piece," Erik growled. "But it's only another two months. It hurts me more than you could imagine to see him with you, but we can't risk them suspecting the truth," he sighed, seeing Christine's alarm.

"So you think they're planning something?" she asked warily.

"I _know_ they're planning something. They made a copy of the plans for the theatre, not that it's still accurate," he drawled. "I think they intend on storming my lair. But they won't find me there," he added with a wry smirk.

"I'd like to see it, you know," Christine commented thoughtfully.

"No. It's terribly damp down there, and you're still sick," he frowned.

"I'm fine, Erik! I want to see it!" she objected.

"Fine? You're constantly dizzy, you said yourself that you have stomach pains, and you sleep almost twice as much as you used to," he retorted pointedly. She rolled her eyes and gave a scoff, leaning back on the chair.

"I'm healthy enough to see the lake. I want to see all the secret places in the theatre."

"Some of those 'secret places' are very dangerous, Christine. I have mechanisms in place to stop intruders," he frowned, sipping from his wine once more.

"But I'll be with you, Erik. You'll keep me safe," she reminded him. "Oh, take me there on Christmas Eve! You can show me the theatre after we've sung Handal's _Messiah_!" she cried suddenly, her eyes alight with excitement. Erik chuckled at her eagerness.

"Well, alright. I'll show you, but you have to promise to be careful, and listen to what I say when we're there," he insisted sternly. She nodded, her eyes twinkling brightly.

Erik smiled. He couldn't deny her a single thing. She was looking more and more beautiful every day, as if married life was making her glow with energy. And he certainly wasn't complaining about her new figure, she was just as curvaceous and lovely as she had been back at the castle before they were taken away from each other. She was shaking off the last manifestations of her childhood and truly becoming a woman before his eyes, and he couldn't think of anything more beautiful.

"Oh, thank you!" she exclaimed happily, wrapping her arms around him tightly. He laughed, and wound his hands over her waist, pressing a slow kiss to her lips. She still tasted like the sweetest thing on earth.

"Mm. Care to show me how grateful you are?" he asked teasingly, nipping at her neck with insistent lips. She gave a soft sigh as he found the place that would always reduce her to jelly when kissed.

No more words were spared. Erik left the rest of the wine abandoned on the kitchen table as he scooped Christine up and carried her to their bedroom.

* * *

Raoul couldn't believe it. He _refused_ to believe what Meg Giry had said to him, it was impossible. Christine couldn't be married to Erik, because she loved _him_! She was grateful to _him_ for separating her from that beast, and when the production was over she would become Viscountess Christine de Chagny, not the wife of a madman!

He nervously paced his front parlour as he waited for Meg to arrive. He had called her early that morning, requesting an interview. Luckily he hadn't had to speak to Madame Giry, who always came to the theatre early, because he could no longer be sure of her word, or of that foreigner Nadir Khan.

They had all been in on it! They were all trying to play a game, thinking that Raoul de Chagny was so silly; he could have the wool pulled over his eyes. Well, they were wrong – he wasn't going to let them get the best of him. He would have Christine as his wife, and Erik would die this time!

"Monsieur? There is a woman here to see you," chirped the maid, popping her pretty head into the parlour.

"Thank you, Aurélie, please send her in," he muttered with great distraction, turning sharply as he continued to pace the room with bursts of nervous energy.

"Monsieur? Am I late?" Meg questioned as she stepped into the room, and noticed the anxiety in Raoul's face.

"I told you, Mademoiselle Giry, it's Raoul. And no, you're not late," he sighed, throwing himself down on a nearby armchair. "Please, take a seat. Would you like some tea or coffee?" he asked politely.

"No, thank you," she replied, sitting herself down as elegantly as she could on a nearby chaise.

"Now, Mademoiselle, would you care to start at the beginning? I need to know everything you know," he pleaded, meeting her eyes with desperation.

"Please, it's just Meg, Raoul," she smiled. He nodded. She really was quite pretty, Meg Giry. But he didn't let that distract him. He was focused on Christine. "Well, Christine and I used to play together when we were children," she began, smoothing down her skirt. "But we didn't speak to each other when she came to work for the theatre as a costume girl last year. She left before Erik did, when she was younger," she explained.

"How long was the Phantom there? How well did he know Christine's family? When did he leave?" Raoul demanded quickly. Meg smiled, swinging her legs with almost child-like delight.

"Well, mère said he came when I was about two years old, and he left when I was nine, I think," she began thoughtfully. "I don't think he was _very_ close with the Daaés. He never went to visit them till a year or so after Christine's mother died," she added, smiling back to him. She seemed to be _enjoying _the experience.

"And did your mother know he was mad, even then?" Raoul asked breathlessly. She shrugged.

"He was nice... to us. But not really to others," she admitted with a tiny frown.

"And... and you say he and Christine, they – they have –" he stopped before the words could even form on his tongue. He couldn't bear to say them; it would be like admitting that he had lost the war for Christine.

"Well, I thought it was funny that if she was supposed to have been kidnapped and raped, she cried for Erik every night," she said, folding her hands delicately on her lap and flashing Raoul her most charming smile. "She did nothing but cry at first. And she would scream at night with nightmares and everyone would be so happy to help her, to comfort her," she sighed, with a tinge of bitterness. "And one night, I heard her singing... and she told some silly story about angels. She thought that Erik had come back as an angel and was singing to her," she scoffed, flipping a lock of blonde hair over her shoulder.

"Did you ever hear him sing?" Raoul probed almost nervously. Meg shook her head.

"Sometimes... after a little while, I thought I heard voices in her room late at night. A man, I was sure of it," she insisted. "And we all know about the notes. It was just like the old days, _the opera ghost_, haunting the theatre; always listening, always watching," she sighed, with a small thrill of excitement rolling through her. It almost disgusted Raoul.

"But you cannot be sure it was him," he murmured, almost hopefully. He would be happy if it way anyone, _anyone_ but Erik.

"On the opening night for _Don Juan Triumphant_, mère, Nadir, Christine and someone else, a man with a deep voice, came into the apartment. I was meant to be asleep, but I heard parts of their conversation, I knew something was happening," she continued, as if he had never interjected. "The next day, mère said Christine was gone, she would live with Nadir for some time, but she would be here on the evenings after her performances," she added in a diligent tone.

"And I cannot believe she is not –"

"I thought it sounded reasonable enough _then_, monsieur. But then I heard ma mère and Nadir speaking of them," she interrupted him, her voice heavy with meaning. Raoul stopped speaking. He needed to know. "They were talking about Christine and Erik. About their wedding, about how they couldn't believe Erik had learnt to love, about how beautiful Christine looked," she continued, when he did not comment.

Oh, how sad Raoul looked all of a sudden! Meg couldn't help but pity him. She was angry that he preferred Christine, that Erik preferred Christine, and that as it was increasingly becoming evident, her own _mother_ preferred Christine, too. But despite her rage and bitterness, she could see that her words pained him. He had genuinely believed that Christine loved him, but it was better that he knew the truth.

"You see, monsieur. Raoul," she sighed sadly. "She never loved you; she only loved Erik and herself. She's not worth your time," she insisted.

"No."

Raoul's response was clipped and curt.

"No. He's – he's tricked her again. He's deceived her, manipulated her, made her believe that she truly loves him," he said, his voice gravitating with anger and force. "She loves me. _Me_. Not that – that _monster_!" he growled, slamming his white fist on the side table. Meg's eyes widened in shock. There was a darkness, a rage stirring beneath his handsome features that frightened her with its intensity.

"But – But she married _Erik_," she reminded him with hesitation, but Raoul only shook his head.

"It's not binding. It cannot be, and even if it is, it doesn't matter. He'll be dead," he snapped bitterly, staring at the empty space before him as if it had served him personal injury, as if it were the reason for Christine's betrayal. "Thank you, Meg. Your information has been very valuable," he murmured quietly.

"Oh. Well, I would be happy to help," she smiled prettily. Raoul glanced up with a slight frown. "I mean, I can get information for you. They don't know that I know all of this, you see, so I could be on the inside. Like a spy," she offered, twirling her hair around one of her slender fingers in a gesture that would make the handsome stage hands trip over themselves to help her with her stretches.

"You would assist us? Me, I mean?" he corrected himself.

"I know the managers want to get rid of Erik," she replied, smoothing her skirt back and crossing one leg over the other. "I want two things, monsieur, but in return I would do anything to help you," she said in a low, sensual voice. It angered her that her seduction was having a very minimal effect on Raoul. Why couldn't he see that she was worth so much more than Christine?

"What do you want, Meg? Money?" he asked with a frown.

"Oh, no, nothing like that," she assured him with a false laugh. "No, I would just like to be considered for some of the major parts in the next production," she explained simply. Raoul nodded.

"Of course. That could be arranged, easily," he murmured. "And the other condition? You said there were two."

"I don't want you to kill Erik."

Raoul looked to her in complete surprise.

"But, surely you must understand... he cannot live, Meg," he insisted in a low voice.

"Then send him away, or better yet, take Christine away," she suggested, sitting forwards attentively. "Please, monsieur Vicomte. I have known him since I was a child! Don't kill him, I beg you," she said softly, reaching for his hands to clutch them tightly in her own. He gave her a weak smile and pulled himself away from her grip.

"I cannot promise what the end result of this will be, Meg," he began slowly, avoiding her eyes. "But if Erik's life can be spared, then... I will spare it. But you must provide me with information in return to assist us," he challenged. She gave a firm nod.

"Whatever I can do, Raoul."

"Thank you very much, Meg. You have been of great assistance," he assured her, giving her another weak smile and standing up. She followed suit, and with a few more pretty smiles she was gone.

Raoul breathlessly sat himself back down in his chaise.

So, it was true.

The beauty and the beast.

The only thing Raoul could now be certain of was that Erik was going to die for all he had taken from him. Promises to ballet rats meant nothing to him when the issue was as black and white as revenge against the man who had stolen everything right from beneath his nose.

* * *

"They're up to something, for goodness' sake, Erik."

"Of course they damn well are, they're idiots."

"But they want to bring Christine into this! I think they suspect what's really going on. I've had some very strange questions."

"I honestly don't give a damn, Daroga. They can plan all they wish, they won't lay a hand on her."

"But you know what the boy is like."

"No one knows what he's like better than I, I can assure you."

"You must take her from Paris. Leave France; it's too dangerous here!"

"We won't run for the rest of our lives, Daroga. This will all end in two months, and _then_ we'll go back to the castle."

"I tell you, it's not safe! Think of Christine, Erik!"

"Keep your voice down, Daroga!" Erik hissed angrily.

Christine stopped unwrapping Christmas decorations as she strained to hear the rest of the conversation from the next room. Erik and Nadir had been arguing for the past fifteen minutes in the kitchen, thinking she was asleep or busy with putting up decorations for Christmas, which was now twelve days away. She had been listening to almost all of the conversation, but the pair never seemed to make any progress. Nadir wished for Christine to be taken safely to Iran, where Raoul and the managers of the opera would never find her, and where she and Erik could go into hiding. Erik had no desire to flee, and almost arrogantly objected to any claims that Raoul and the managers could possibly cause any real harm. It was the same old argument that had been going on between Erik, Nadir, Madame Giry and Christine herself ever since Erik reappeared.

"Erik, you're being foolish. You can't go back to the theatre, this 'Phantom' game must end _now_, before they catch you," Nadir snapped, his voice hushed once more. Christine rose from the rug that she sat on by the cheerfully crackling fire, and padded to the doors that separated the living room from the kitchen, pressing her ear against the door.

"They won't catch me. I've been at this for much longer than any of them."

"You have another person to consider now, Erik, and I swear; if you make a widow out of Christine before her eighteenth birthday –"

"Then you'll marry her in my place and spite my memory for the rest of your life," Erik drawled sarcastically.

"Shut up, Erik. I'm trying to be reasonable," Nadir snapped. "They've been asking me more questions about your lair. And about Christine. I don't give a damn about what happens to you, just keep her out of it," he growled. Erik responded with a laugh.

"I know you're lying, Daroga, you're much too fond of me for your own good," he teased, before his voice turned serious again. "But I'm not going to risk losing her again. Let them plot all they wish, they don't know where I live now, and they don't know that Christine is now my wife," he assured him firmly.

"Just... be careful. They know I'm not telling them the whole truth, and you have to admit, Christine's sudden cheerfulness is rather unusual," Nadir commented. "Marie says they're all talking about it at the theatre. They've got all sorts of rumours flying around, thankfully none of them are close to the truth – but they think she's carrying the Vicomte's child, now," he warned, causing Erik to give another laugh.

"I suppose the boy started that rumour himself to disguise his failure as a lover to bed Christine, or any other woman, for that matter," he sniggered. "Let them say what they wish! She doesn't care. She's there to perform, and nothing else. You should have seen her when she was at her best," he added. Christine couldn't help but smile at those words.

"Her best?"

"She's almost back to her old self now. She's even getting better; soon I'll have nothing left to teach her."

Christine bit her lip to stop herself from giggling with glee. She wanted to kiss Erik for those words, but she didn't want to give away her position and admit that she had been eavesdropping.

"Anyway. Your concern is pointless. We're staying in Paris until the production is finished, and then we'll slip away silently in the night. If they come looking for us, then so be it. They won't take her, and she'll return even better than ever before."

"So you two have spoken about this? She's happy for you to keep up this ruse?"

"Well... sort of. She likes bringing the topic up, but she knows where I stand," he replied in his usual careless manner. Christine could see Nadir's disapproving frown in her mind's eye.

"I almost wish she could hear what you're saying know, and know what an arrogant idiot you are," Nadir scoffed.

"She's probably sleeping. She sleeps a lot now, I think she's perhaps still a little young for all this. It's taking its toll on her."

"All the same..."

And then Nadir began to speak words that were unfamiliar to Christine. She scowled as she realised that he had switched to speaking in Farsi, which Nadir and Erik often spoke between themselves. She didn't know a single word in Farsi, which was convenient when Erik wished to make crude jokes and sly comments that only Nadir would understand or appreciate.

Bitterly she returned to sitting before the fire with her decorations. She had been purchasing a great deal over the past few weeks in preparation for Christmas, and for the first time in over a year she had visited the storage unit just outside of Paris where some of the treasures that she couldn't bear to part with from her childhood home had been stored after her father passed away and the house in Switzerland was sold, all funds placed in a trust that she had only now received due to her marriage. There she cried as she sorted through possessions that held so many memories until she found the small box of Christmas decorations that had been such an important part of her childhood.

She hadn't really been thinking of her parents and her old home of late. She was so occupied with her new life with Erik that when she received a letter from the solicitor in Switzerland informing her that she was now eligible for her inheritance, she had completely forgotten that she was entitled to it anyway. She was now a very rich woman; and although it was nothing compared to the wealth that Erik had already assembled over the years that he assured her was just as much hers as it was his, it was at least comforting to know that they would always be comfortable in life, come what may.

She lovingly took out the precious decorations that had been passed down by ancestors or made with such love and care for the Christmas tree back in her Switzerland home. She felt tears sting her eyes as she unwrapped a pair of small wooden doves that had been painted with such care, black eyes glinting beautifully as she carefully set them atop the mantle. As Erik and Nadir continued to argue in the kitchen she slowly transformed the living room into a Christmas wonderland. It started to feel like home, she realised as she hung the baubles on the Christmas tree she had purchased that morning.

By the time she had finished with the living room and hung wreaths, mistletoe and a few assorted decorations through the rest of the apartment, over an hour had passed and Nadir and Erik were still speaking, their voices occasionally harsh and sharp, and sometimes hushed and conspiring. Christine gathered up the last of the decorations that she would use in the kitchen and the front hallway, and gently pushed the door open.

"Oh, you're awake," Erik said in surprise as she appeared. He glanced over her shoulder with a raised brow. "And... you've been busy," he commented, almost warily, spying the changes to his living room.

"Yes, I've almost finished decorating!" she smiled, placing a centrepiece on the kitchen table, and beginning to rattle through the cupboards in search of candles that would power its mechanisms.

"What's this?" he asked cautiously, inspecting the decoration.

"It's a... oh, I don't know it in English, but it's from the Bible, the birth of Jesus," she explained, glancing to Nadir for help. He smiled.

"Nativity. It's a French word, I think," he informed her.

"Yes, that's it! I don't know where it came from, but I remember Papa used to sit it on the mantle, and if you put candles in it, the heat would turn those... propeller things, and the people would move," she explained, opening a box to rifle through the contents in search of her candles.

"Mm. He's done something to it, though," Erik frowned. "He's gone and changed the figures! It was completely different!" he despaired loudly, picking the decoration up and inspecting each piece.

"Do you recognise it?" Christine commented with surprise.

"Recognise it? I _made_ it for you. It used to be a scene from _Faust_. See where he's put in new figures? Your father was a thief," Erik scowled, placing it back down on the table with an angry growl.

"You made it? For me?"

"Why would you give a child a scene from _Faust_ to play with?" Nadir exclaimed. Erik shrugged.

"I would have liked it when I was a child," he replied simply. Nadir sent Christine a knowing glance when she rolled her eyes.

"I hope you two never have children," he said quietly to her.

"She liked it when she was ten!" Erik objected.

"Well, I _do_ like it. I used to watch it for hours," she said fondly, pulling out five tapers to stick in the sides.

"I wonder what other gifts he ruined," Erik muttered bitterly. Christine looked thoughtful.

"Did you give me a music box once?" she asked curiously, as she set about boiling the kettle for some tea.

"I gave you many music boxes, I'll have you know. But I expect your father ruined them all," he scowled.

"It's just... I think I remember you giving me one. A monkey with a waistcoat and a fez, and a little pair of cymbals," she said, tapping her lip as she struggled to remember. Erik nodded.

"Yes, that was one of mine. It's probably a fairy princess or a unicorn now," he drawled, still glaring bitterly at the contraption.

"I was looking for it in the storage unit. I really loved it, but I couldn't find it there. I played with it all the time, but I don't remember sending it to the unit. I don't know what's in there, all sorts of things were just sitting there, gathering dust," she sighed, reaching up to get the tea from the cupboard.

"You're looking well, Christine," Nadir commented, earning him a scowl from Erik.

"Oh, thanks. I'm back to the weight I was before I left the castle," she replied with a small smile.

"You know, he's done this all wrong. I'll have to fix it now," Erik muttered, picking the entire centrepiece up with a firm scowl.

"Erik! I like it like that!" Christine objected, but her husband only waved her off.

"It will still be a nativity scene, don't worry. But the figures will be a little less crude," he assured her, rising to his feet.

"Don't break it."

"Break it? I never break things."

He glanced up when both Nadir and Christine sent him pointed looks. He rolled his pale eyes.

"Alright, I have a slight problem about throwing things at people. But I won't break this, I'm going to fix it," he insisted firmly, before taking the entire piece with him to his study down the hall. Christine couldn't help but laugh beneath her breath as she took the teapot to the table and sat down where Erik had been.

"At least it gives him something to do, other than arguing," she smiled, pouring Nadir a fresh cup of tea. He winced.

"You heard, then?"

"The raised voices, the Farsi? Yes, I heard, but I didn't understand," she sighed, pouring herself her own cup, and then rising again to fetch the milk and sugar. "I know what you were talking about, though. And I'm worried too. I don't know if it's safe to stay here anymore," she muttered quietly, resuming her place at the table. Nadir gave her a sympathetic smile.

"He doesn't listen to you?" he questioned, with no little surprise. She shook her head.

"No, he just waves me off and says he'll look after us. But I'm worried," she admitted, pouring the milk with slightly shaking hands. "He's so arrogant. I don't want to risk anything happening, and I know Raoul is up to something. He's been acting very strangely of late, I don't trust him not to do something stupid," she explained, running a hand through her dark curls.

"Yes, he's arrogant, but he has a reason to be, Christine. He knows how to manipulate people and avoid bad situations," he reminded her. She rolled her emerald eyes.

"He thought the best way to look after _me_ would be to kidnap me in the middle of the night, and then pretend to be dead for months. He seems very good at creating bad situations to _me_," she snapped, stirring the sugar into her tea perhaps a little more forcefully than needed. "I know I'm being ridiculous. But he's got such a big head that sometimes someone has to reign him in," she muttered, rising from her chair and fetching a packet of biscuits from the cupboard, sitting back down again and chewing on one thoughtfully.

Nadir considered her for a moment with concerned eyes.

"Christine... are you... well?" he asked carefully. She looked up in surprise.

"What?"

"Are you – well, are you feeling healthy again? Do you feel back to normal?" he questioned thoughtfully, glancing her up and down. She shrugged.

"I suppose. I mean, I'm eating more, I've gained weight, I'm sleeping, so I suppose I'm fine," she said simply. Nadir gave a slow nod.

"You're not... you aren't... that is, you're not –" he sighed, and then stopped himself.

"What? What are you trying to ask?"

He stared at her with a slight frown, and seemed just about to speak when Erik appeared suddenly back in the room, holding the centrepiece, which was smoking.

"I might have set it on fire," he announced briskly, putting it in the sink and quickly pouring a cupful of water over one of the figures. Christine couldn't help but laugh. "This isn't _funny_, woman, your father did a very poor job on this!" he snapped.

"Well I've always loved it, so please don't set it on fire again," she giggled. Erik rolled his eyes.

"He did a lazy job. He only changed one or two figures and just repainted the others, the irony is that he took out the devil and put the manger on top of it," he explained with an amused smirk. "He had a sense of humour, at least," he chuckled, before picking the piece up once more, which had now stopped smoking. He then hurried back into his study, muttering beneath his breath as the centrepiece dripped onto the floor.

"What were you going to say?" Christine asked, turning back to Nadir.

"Oh, nothing," he smiled, shaking his head slightly. "I'd best be off before Erik sets fire to something else. I'll come by tomorrow with a fire extinguisher," he chuckled, rising to his feet. They bid each other goodbye, and Christine fixed the last of the decorations before Erik rushed into the kitchen again, having set fire to the centrepiece once more.

"You know I liked your father, but you do _not_ use a flammable varnish when the entire system is powered by fire!" Erik growled angrily. Christine laughed into his shoulder as she joined him by the sink, and slid her arms around his waist.

"You're silly," she smiled. He rolled his pale blue-grey eyes.

"That seems to be the general consensus today," he drawled.

"I know what you and Nadir were arguing about. He thinks we should leave Paris," she commented, after a short pause, in which Erik carefully put out the last of the small fire.

"Do you?" he questioned, quite honestly. She sighed, and played with a loose thread on his collar.

"I don't want you to get hurt."

"Trust me, I'm in more danger fixing this than I am in staying in Paris," he assured her. She nodded.

"I just don't want to lose you again," she admitted, her words quiet and soft against his shoulder.

"Well, you won't. I'm here, and I'm not leaving you. Ever. So get used to me setting fire to your decorations," he smirked. She gave another laugh.

"Good. If that's the price I have to pay for you being here and safe, then I'm alright with that," she assured him. He gave her a soft, comforting smile, and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"I'll always look after you, you know," he reminded her. She nodded. "Now. Let's see if we can try this again, but this time, no matches!" he announced, picking up the dripping decoration once more, and carrying back to his study with a very focused expression.

Christine couldn't help but laugh at the sight.

She just hoped that Erik's arrogance was well founded, and that she wouldn't have to lose him for a second time because of others conspiring against them.

**A/N: I love the feeling you get when you've done an assignment early and you know its out of the way. *Collective sigh of relief***

**Anyhoo, I finished my rhetoric assignment and decided to update tonight, as I sip my hot chocolate and curl up in my Strawberry Shortcake blankie. It's getting chilly down under!**


	35. The Persian's House

"You look very beautiful tonight," Raoul commented almost desperately, his eyes fixed to the woman who sat across him at the best table in one of Paris' finest restaurants. Christine managed a forced smile that came out as more of a grimace.

"Thank you, Raoul," she murmured, sipping her water to break the tension between the two.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like some wine?"

"No, this is fine, thank you," she replied with another forced smile. Raoul nodded, staring down at his barely touched plate. He desperately wanted to reach across the table to her and shake the truth out of her beautiful body. Had she truly betrayed him by marrying such a monster as Erik? Or was Meg Giry telling lies so she could secure herself the best parts in the new productions the theatre was working on?

"You know, Christine, you needn't go back to Madame Giry's apartment tonight, I have plenty of room at mine, and it's close to the theatre," he suggested, hoping he didn't sound too desperate. Christine looked to him in alarm.

"I – thank you, Raoul, but Madame Giry is expecting me, and I – I can't sleep in a strange bed," she explained weakly.

"But I know you're staying with that foreigner now, too. Kahn," he practically spat. Nadir Kahn was one of his least favourite people at that time; he refused to assist them any longer in the search for Erik.

"Yes. He's a good friend to me," she replied, with a hint of coolness as she pushed vegetables around on her plate.

"And I'm not? We – we're going to get _married_, Christine, and you never spend your nights at _my_ apartment," he hissed, his voice lowered. Her cheeks flushed red.

"Raoul, you aren't suggesting... that's a sin, and you know it," she insisted, as if she were offended for the very suggestion. Raoul gave an irritated sigh.

"It's not a sin to let the man who loves you hold and kiss you," he defended. Christine's cheeks turned an even darker hue.

"Nadir doesn't hold me and he doesn't kiss me. There's no need to be jealous," she scolded. He felt like an idiot when he heard his own words aloud, but he was so sick of their separation. He loved her, and she loved _him_, he knew it! He tried to control his anger before he spoke again.

"I know, Christine," he muttered through gritted teeth. "But... you know I love you very much, do you not?" he asked her softly. She regarded him with an expression that almost seemed... _pitiful_, but it was gone in another moment.

"I know you do, Raoul."

"Remember when we were children, Christine?" he began, reaching for her hand across the table. She lowered her head. "We used to play on the beach for hours, telling each other stories and playing games, that summer you spent with my family –"

"As my mother died. Yes, Raoul, I remember," she spat bitterly, pulling her hand away.

"But, Christine, we were so happy then," he reminded her softly. She sighed, and lowered her eyes to stare at her lap. "We could leave as soon as you wanted, and just disappear. We could go wherever you wanted, and we would be happy again, just you and me, no Phantom, no opera, no Khan or Madame Giry, just us, together again," he continued, his voice rising in passion. "Now it's nothing but lies and pain. Christine, I want you to be honest with me, I want you to tell me what's going on," he begged.

Christine gave another sigh.

"Perhaps it's time you took me home, Raoul. I'm tired, and tomorrow is Christmas Eve. A lot will be happening at the theatre," she finally spoke. Raoul didn't bother hiding his disappointment as his shoulders slumped.

"Alright, Christine," he muttered, rising from his chair. He paid the bill and they left the restaurant in silence as Raoul called his driver to come pick them up.

"You know, Nadir's place is just up this street. You don't need to take me to Madame Giry's, Raoul. Please, go home, you're tired," Christine suggested as they stepped out into the cold night.

"I couldn't do that, Christine," Raoul frowned. She gave him a comforting smile.

"Really, I don't mind. I'd prefer that, actually, I feel like a little walk, and Madame Giry said she was going straight to bed the moment she got home, so I'd only wake her," she assured him. He gave a strained nod.

"Alright, but I'll walk you to Nadir's place. I can't have you catching a cold," he decided with a frown. She looked slightly disappointed, but nodded, and allowed him to take her arm.

They walked up the road quietly, both parties deep in thought. Things were ticking in Raoul's mind, possibilities he had never anticipated... what if Meg Giry were wrong, and it wasn't Christine and _Erik_, but rather Christine and Nadir? He didn't want Christine to have feelings for any other man, but if he had to choose between the two, it would be Nadir.

Although, that didn't make him feel any better.

"Do you have a key?" he asked her, when they came to the front door of the apartment building where Nadir lived. Christine nodded, and pulled the spare key Nadir had given her months ago from her pocket. Raoul followed her in before they could bid goodbye, and they were soon standing in the elevator.

Raoul wondered when Christine was going to instigate her usual practise of tossing him out without so much as a peck on the cheek as they approached the door. She knocked quietly, and it was answered by Nadir, who quickly hid his surprise.

"Bonsoir, Nadir. I thought it would be better if I came back here, tonight," Christine smiled. Nadir nodded.

"Of course. Raoul," he muttered, nodding to the younger gentleman. Nadir glanced between the two and then stepped back, leaving them to say goodbye in private.

Raoul was surprised when instead of just leaving him without a word; Christine turned to him, raised herself up on her toes and pressed a kiss to his lips. He responded eagerly and cupped the back of her neck before she could pull away. The kiss didn't last as long as he would have liked, but it filled Raoul's heart with hope and love. He released her after a few moments, regarding her with one of his most sincere smiles.

"I love you, Christine," he said softly to her. She pressed another, lighter kiss over his lips, and allowed him to embrace her gently.

"I love you too, Raoul," she murmured quietly. "Bon nuit," she said finally, before stepping into the apartment and closing the door.

Raoul stared at the place she had stood for several seconds before he gave a happy sigh, and turned to leave the building, his heart feeling lighter than it had in over a year. She loved him. He could tell by that kiss, she _loved_ him!

Meg Giry must have been wrong. They were all wrong; because Christine loved him.

* * *

"Are you alright?" Nadir asked, when Christine walked into his living room, hugging herself as if that could wash away Raoul's embrace. She shook her head, and allowed Nadir to lead her to the sofa, and she curled herself on his lap with her head against his chest.

"He started talking about... Nadir, I think he knows," she sniffled quietly. He stroked back her dark curls.

"You kissed him so he wouldn't suspect anything?" he asked, his voice gentle and understanding. She nodded once more.

"You can't tell Erik," she murmured against his shirt.

"By Allah, Christine, and give myself a death sentence?" he chuckled. "You did the right thing. Raoul has been acting strangely. He's an idiot, but I know he's not completely blind," he assured her.

"I feel... disgusting. Tainted," she muttered bitterly. "He's kissed me before, but this is the first time that _I_ kissed _him_. I feel like I've betrayed Erik, even though I lied when I said I loved Raoul," she sighed.

"Did you betray Erik by kissing me?" Nadir asked plainly, almost casually. She was silent for a moment, then shook her head.

"No. I don't think he minds. He pretends he does, but I think he understands," she shrugged, raising her fingers to her lips and wincing with the memory of Raoul's mouth against hers. "That's why I came here. I knew I had to kiss him, but if he saw me at Madame Giry's... he would kill Raoul. I know he would," she muttered.

"I don't doubt that. You can stay here tonight, I'll call Erik."

Christine gave him a grateful smile of thanks and slid off his lap as he headed into the kitchen to make some hot chocolate that would starve away the cold night.

Christine had spent some time in Nadir's apartment before, but she'd never really looked around in great detail. She took off her long coat that covered the simple but very chic black sheath dress she had worn to dinner and slid out of her high heels. She began to stroll around the room, inspecting Nadir's personal effects with curiosity. It was quite plain – the walls were a nice shade of chocolate brown with cream trimmings, what little furniture he had was purely functional, and the only pictures on the wall were of buildings that he had either designed or admired. She remembered how Erik had told her he didn't like physical possessions, and that was evident throughout his apartment.

There was only one thing that gave any indication of the man who lived in those rooms. She found one small photograph on the desk where Nadir obviously worked, in a plain black frame. It depicted a younger looking Nadir, smiling with more joy than she had ever seen on his face, a young boy of no more than four years, a laughing grin on his face with his pale brown arms thrown around Nadir's neck. Beside the two was a very beautiful young woman in her mid to late twenties, long rolls of shiny black hair and enchanting dark eyes, a pretty smile on her lips as she regarded Nadir and the boy with incredible love in her expression.

"Reza, and my wife, Rookheya. He had a good few days right before the end," came Nadir's voice from behind, causing Christine to jump slightly in surprise. "We could almost pretend he wasn't going to die. He honestly believed it, and then suddenly, he was just gone," he muttered sadly, as she stepped away from the photo.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have been snooping," she apologised. He gave a bitter smile and a shrug.

"I couldn't get rid of the photos. They were all I kept, just photos... I forget what his face looked like sometimes, you know," he sighed, digging his hands into his pockets and staring down at the photo sadly.

"He looks very happy."

"It was his fourth birthday. This was the last photo we ever took; he didn't wake up the next morning. He might have had a few more days if we kept him in hospital, but I couldn't do that to him," he answered, giving another shrug, and walking away from the photo. "Erik was there. All my friends had this wonderful ability of saying exactly the wrong thing when they tried to help... Erik was both mercifully distracting and cruelly blunt. I don't think I would have survived without him," he commented, strolling back into the kitchen.

"And Rookheya?" Christine asked softly, seating herself at the breakfast bench as he poured the hot chocolate out from a saucepan on the stove.

"She left the day we buried him. It was too much for her. We both loved him more than we loved each other," he sighed, passing her a mug. She sipped it silently, not sure what she could possibly say to him in response. She didn't think anything could make up for what he had lost.

"Do you think you'll marry again? Have another child?" she asked softly. He leant against the bench with a soft chuckle.

"What, you'll divorce Erik and marry me instead? Give me another son?" he drawled teasingly. "No. I've loved enough in my life, and I've lost enough. Never again," he swore, staring down at his cup thoughtfully. "I should call Erik. He'll murder me if he finds out I've got you alone in my apartment," he commented suddenly, crossing the kitchen for the phone. "You can go to bed now, if you're tired, Christine. Just fetch a shirt from my wardrobe to sleep in. Do you know where the guest room is?" he questioned, and she nodded. "Alright, I'll call Erik and let him know," he announced, picking up the handset and dialling as Christine finished the last of her hot chocolate.

She found a plain tee shirt of Nadir's to sleep in and took it to the guest room to change. As she slipped back into the hall to find the bathroom and wash her face, she stumbled into a blushing Nadir, whose attention was fixed on her long, slender legs that were shown off to the best advantage in the shirt.

"Ah. I can see you've already changed," he commented, with a faint smile playing on his lips. Christine rolled her eyes and slid past him. She was happy to be playful and even flirtatious with Nadir, because they both knew nothing could come from it. Nothing could compare to how much she loved Erik. "He was by no means pleased, but he says as long as I keep my 'filthy hands' to myself, he won't kill me in my sleep," he drawled.

"Is he coming here?"

"He'll be here in the morning. He said he had to prepare a few things for tomorrow," he answered with a small shrug.

"Oh, yes! He said he was going to show me around the theatre, I'm very excited," she said, her lips curving to an eager grin.

"Mm. Be careful, it's a very dangerous place," Nadir warned, but Christine only waved him off.

"I have Erik to look after me, I'll be fine," she assured him. He laughed, and nodded.

"Alright, so long as you're sure. Now, I'm going to bed, before I won't be able to trust myself not to put my 'filthy hands' on you, and we'll both be killed," he teased, stepping past her to go to his own bedroom.

"Good night, Nadir," she said, rising up on her toes and pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. He smiled faintly, and then moved his lips over to cover hers. Their kiss was short and sweet, but it made Christine feel clean of Raoul's touch, and she was able to give a relieved sigh and rest her head against his shoulder when their lips had parted. "Thank you," she murmured quietly. He gently smoothed back her hair.

"Erik is a lucky man," he said, before gently releasing her from his embrace. "Good night, Christine. I'll see you in the morning," he smiled, before leaving her alone in the hall.

Christine glanced across at the photograph on his desk after he had gone. She tried to look past the pain she knew was attached to the image, and see only a beautiful, happy family. She was struck with a sudden sense of... longing?

_Was_ it longing? Did she want her own family like Nadir's, before tragedy ripped them apart? She had always thought she wanted children with little consideration to the matter, she was a woman; she would grow up and get married and have babies, it was what she was created for, she had thought. Did she want to have a child? Too watch it grow up, to be there as it suffered and as it triumphed?

She pushed the thought from her mind as she recalled how Erik disliked children. It couldn't happen. She didn't know why she felt a little sad at that thought, but she resolved to forget it. There was no use in longing after what you couldn't have.

She washed her face and slid into the unfamiliar bed, determined to never consider the matter again. She was happy. She was blissful. She didn't want that to change, that was certain.

* * *

Christine awoke the next morning to a rather unfamiliar feeling.

Warm, strong arms encased around her body, her head using a human chest as a pillow, a large hand with long, elegant fingers gently stroking her forearm, and the sound of another's breath by her ear.

She'd never awoken with Erik beside her. He had an awful habit of rising several hours before her, and like some people were unable to stand warm baths for very long, he was unable to sleep for more than a few hours at a time. Sometimes his side of the bed would still be warm by the time Christine rose, but most of the time, he would have been busy at work in his study or in the music room for several hours by the time she stumbled into daylight.

"Mm. Good morning," she greeted him with a lazy smile, stretching out on the bed and giving a contented sigh as he stroked back her dark hair.

"Morning, Christine," he smiled, bending down to press a light kiss to her forehead.

"You know, I never thought I'd be able to wake up with you next to me," she commented through a yawn.

"Well, technically, I didn't sleep here, and I'm not exactly next to you, but I am here," he teased. She rolled her emerald eyes, bright and incredibly clear from her slumber. "So. Last night? I receive a call from the Daroga, informing me that you'll be staying the night at his apartment? Care to explain?" he requested, with a hint of accusation flashing in his eyes.

"Raoul... he suspects something, Erik. Nadir's is safer right now," she said simply, giving another yawn as she sat up slightly. Erik nodded.

"Alright. I believe you," he muttered, after some consideration.

"What's there not to believe? Did you think it was some ruse to spend the night with Nadir?" she teased. Erik rolled his eyes.

"I didn't know what to think. I know you like him," he replied quite plainly.

"Yes, I do like him," she shrugged. "I love him very much. But I'm _your_ wife, you know," she replied, entwining their hands together where their wedding rings glittered in the early morning light. "It's Christmas Eve!" she whispered excitedly, making to sit up.

"It's still early. Let me savour this," he admonished, pulling her back on the bed, and pressing a gentle kiss to the side of her temple.

"How long have you been here?"

"Since dawn. I doubt Nadir even knows I'm here," he said thoughtfully, glancing around the room.

"I should probably get up; we need to go home so I can get ready for Handel's _Messiah _today. And you promised to show me around the theatre, too," she added firmly. Erik chuckled.

"That I did. We still have time," he assured her, sinking down further into the unfamiliar bed. "You were very fidgety. You almost kicked me in the shin about an hour ago," he frowned suddenly, poking her in the side as if for punishment. She laughed at his teasing.

"It's hard to get comfortable these days. I think it's because of all this extra weight, I feel like an elephant, and it hurts my back," she explained.

"You are _not_ an elephant. I prefer you like this, with curves and breasts."

"Well, it makes it hard to dance. When we go back to the castle, I'll spend half my day in your gym," she decided firmly.

"No, we'll go back to the routine we had before; you've been neglecting your studies," he frowned sternly.

"Erik, I'm almost eighteen! When are you going to treat me like an adult?" she laughed.

"When you're my age."

"But you don't know what your age is."

"Exactly," he smirked. Christine rolled her eyes and dug her elbow into his side. He chuckled, and rolled over atop her, pinning her arms above her head and running his fingers over her stomach, tickling her mercilessly. She laughed and struggled against his grip, but he seemed to be enjoying himself too much to stop. It wasn't until the door opened to the bedroom and Nadir casually walked past with a cup of coffee held in his hand that he finally stopped.

"Morning, you two," he greeted almost boredly. Erik gave a frustrated sigh into Christine's curls as he released her.

"You know, last time he interrupted I believe I was shot," he said thoughtfully, sitting up.

"Just thought you might like to know, the walls are very thin, and I have no intention of listening to you two all morning," Nadir called out from the kitchen.

"Don't we have a gentleman's agreement not to disturb –"

"You're no gentleman, Erik, so don't even bother," Nadir interrupted his old friend. Christine couldn't help but laugh at his comments.

"Don't, you'll only encourage him," Erik scolded.

"If it means you stop _torturing_ me, I'll gladly encourage him," she giggled.

"Well, he opened the door, he can close it if he doesn't want to see anything," Erik scoffed, bending his head and capturing Christine's lips in a deep kiss, sliding his body atop hers.

From over Erik's shoulder she could see Nadir approach with a large glass of cold water, and stifled laughter as he poured it on Erik's head. Erik leapt off her suddenly, his eyes wide with surprise as he passed his hand over his head.

"Daroga, I'll kill you for that," he growled, but Nadir was already out of the room leaving nothing but a laugh, pulling the door closed with him. "Bastard," Erik grumbled, pulling off his shirt and using it to dry his dark hair. Christine sat up and couldn't help but appreciatively admire the curves and lines of his body that were so familiar to her. "Don't look at me like that, you could have stopped him. Traitor," he muttered bitterly, but there was a spark playing in his eyes that assured her he was only teasing.

"Hmm, I could have. But this was funnier," she laughed, sliding out of bed and making to slip past him and have some breakfast.

"Oh no you don't, you're going to pay for your treachery," he murmured into her neck, his hands pulling her back against his chest. "And just to annoy the Daroga, please, be as loud as you can?" he requested into her hair.

"She doesn't need to be loud; I can still hear you two!" Nadir called from the living room. Erik sighed against her shoulder as Christine giggled.

"Alright, he's won. Come on then," he muttered bitterly, pulling the door open. Nadir sat calmly on the sofa with a smirk on his lips.

"Done already? Erik, I knew you exaggerated your skills with women, but I never thought –"

"Erik!" Christine laughed, tugging at her husband as he made to lunge at Nadir, and probably strangle him. "He's only teasing," she giggled, poking him in the belly. Erik muttered a curse beneath his breath in a language she didn't understand.

"Erik, you can't even do that to a goat. Anyone with any understanding of biology knows that," Nadir drawled, sipping his coffee.

"You're the goat," he retorted pointedly. Nadir sniggered into his coffee.

"I certainly hope not," he muttered, shaking his head. "Good morning, Christine," he greeted, the laughter still dancing in his dark eyes.

"Morning, Nadir," she replied cheerfully, giving her husband one last teasing poke, before heading for the kitchen.

"Stop looking at her, Daroga," Erik scolded, when he had finished watching his wife walk across the apartment.

"Me? Never. I respect you far too much, Erik," he drawled mindlessly, picking up his newspaper from the coffee table with an air that suggested he didn't respect Erik at all.

Christine watched the two bicker from the kitchen. It was very amusing to see them together; what could easily have been mistaken for animosity was clearly the deepest of friendships that went beyond all social niceties. There was a sense of camaraderie between them that stemmed from mutual affection, but it was ironic that both of them firmly denied that it existed.

She hoped that when she and Erik returned to the castle that Nadir would come too. It just wouldn't feel right without him; and she couldn't stand the idea of him being alone, not while he still had the demons of his son's death to deal with.

She stilled all thoughts of the future as she poured coffee for her and Erik. Today was Christmas Eve, and she was looking forward to a long and exciting day with Erik.

**A/N: Hmmm. So a few people are leaping to certain conclusions. Well, maybe you're right, maybe you're wrong. But all I can say is that when it comes to the well-trod paths, I don't tend to walk them in an ordinary and dull manner. Like years of cross-country races in school, I prefer to skip. Or goose-step. Or cartwheel my way across. **

**Right. I'm feeling in a rather silly mood this evening. I've been watching some Stephen Fry documentaries and eating ice-cream, so please excuse my silliness. And my simile. And perhaps this chapter. No, not this chapter, actually. I like this one, it has Nadir, whom we all love and adore. **

**Right?**


	36. The Phantom's Lair

Christine felt a thrill of excitement rush through her as she left the stage with the flurry of the chorus and other leads when they finished the final act of Handel's _Messiah_ to a cheering audience. She got such an incredible buzz from performance!

"Are you excited about Christmas, Christine?" Madame Giry questioned the young woman as she wound her way through the wings.

"Very! I hope you're feeling in a teaching mood, because I want to learn how to prepare Christmas dinner," she insisted brightly. Marie smiled and patted the girl's shoulder.

"Of course. You should come early tomorrow so I can show you a few things, Meg will be spending Christmas with her father in Lyon, so Nadir and Erik will be welcome for dinner," she assured her in a low voice, leading her away from the busy wings.

"Oh, I thought she was just ill today," the younger woman frowned in concern. She had not forgotten Meg, even though Meg wanted very little to do with Christine.

"She's being difficult. I think she's just going through a phase... but her father will be grateful to see her, I suppose," she shrugged, giving a strained smile. Christine gave the woman a consoling hug. "I'm just being silly. Are you going home now?" she asked curiously.

"No, Erik is going to show me around the theatre a little," Christine smiled excitedly. Marie chuckled.

"Oh dear. Well, be careful, and remind him that you're in no condition to be running around damp passageways all day," she said sternly. Christine frowned.

"But I'm feeling much better now," she insisted. Marie smiled, and patted the girl's shoulder.

"Alright. Whatever you say, Christine," she smiled, with the air of one who knew a great secret. "I must be off then, I have a lot I need to prepare, come round at about noon tomorrow and I'll show you how to make the puddings and the turkey," she instructed. Christine nodded, with a slight frown of confusion, before bidding the woman goodbye.

She shrugged her confusion off and made her way through the halls to find her dressing room, where she had agreed to meet Erik. She flicked on the light and glanced around, but there was no sign of him. She began to remove the splendid red and gold chorus robes that she had been wearing during the performance so she could change in something a little more comfortable. By the time she was in jeans, tennis shoes and a warm jumper and coat, Erik was standing in the corner of the room, but she had no idea how he got there.

"Oh, you frightened me!" she cried suddenly, leaping back in surprise when she spied him watching her with a smirk on his lips and desire in his eyes.

"Sorry. Couldn't resist," he murmured with an adorable shrug, stepping forwards and pressing a soft, slow kiss to her lips. "You sounded beautiful. Are you ready?" he questioned, glancing over her attire.

"Is this alright?" she questioned. He nodded.

"It should be fine. Will you be warm enough?" he asked in concern. She rolled her emerald eyes.

"I'll be fine. Everyone seems so worried about this. Nadir said it would be dangerous and Madame Giry said I should remind you I'm in no 'condition' to be running around damp passageways," she grumbled bitterly. Erik chuckled.

"They're worried, my pet. Now come along, I have a lot to show you," he instructed, taking her hand, and stepping backwards to the mirror. She gave an excited, slightly nervous laugh.

"So what are you showing me first?" she asked eagerly. He smirked.

"Well, I figured I might give you an idea of how I've been keeping an eye on you," he shrugged, reaching behind him to press his hand against the mirror. To her surprise, as he ran his fingers over the frame and then pressed against the glass, it slid back at his command, leaving a gap that he could fit through quite comfortably.

"Is this how you get in and out?" she gasped in surprise. He smiled.

"One of the many entrances and exits to the... _other_ side of the theatre, my love," he shrugged simply, pulling her through the mirror into a dark passageway, lit only with the light coming through the mirror. When she was through, he pressed against the other side of the glass, and it slid back into place. The glass revealed the whole dressing room to her gaze, although the other side was simply a mirror.

"You were watching me through this?" she exclaimed.

"Sometimes. Most of the time I was in the room with you, but I'll show you more about that later. I don't usually use this passageway, there's another entrance to this dressing room that's a bit more covert, but this is far more dramatic," he chuckled, giving her hand a quick squeeze. "Now, I can see quite well in the dark, but your eyes won't be able to adjust as well. You need to hold tightly to me, and wear this," he said, pulling something from his pocket. It was a globe about the size of a tennis ball, and had a long leather strap that he wound around her neck, the ball bouncing against her stomach.

"What is it?" she questioned curiously.

"One of my little inventions," he explained, taking the ball in his hand. He knocked on it with his knuckles, and the ball immediately began to emit a low red light. He hit it again, and the light was brighter, blue this time. He hit it again, and it was a very bright yellow. He hit it once more, and it was such a bright white that she couldn't bear to look at it. "I would prefer if you kept it on red," he said, hitting it once more so the light disappeared completely. "I can see better myself when it's red, and it helps you get used to the darkness. Just give it a good strong tap when you want more light," he instructed, hitting it once more so it turned red again, and allowed it to dangle around her neck once more.

"That's very clever," she commented appreciatively.

"It still has its flaws. It gets quite hot, so you can't keep it on for too long. And it runs on batteries, but it should last for quite some time. I'm developing one that runs on solar energy, but this should do for now," he explained with a modest shrug, pulling another from his pocket, and putting it over his neck.

"I thought you could see well in the dark?" she questioned with a raised brow.

"This is how you know where I am in case we get separated," he explained simply.

"Oh. Well, that makes sense," she muttered.

"If we _do_ get separated, then stay perfectly still. Don't move an inch, do you hear?" he said sternly. She nodded with determination. "I'll find you, just stay exactly where you are, and don't touch _anything_. I have mechanisms in place to keep out intruders, and the deeper down we get the more dangerous they are," he warned. With the eerie red light from the globes, his expression looked quite menacing. "If you hear a rattle, get on the ground, as flat as you can. And scream so I know where you are," he instructed, his voice quite severe. She swallowed nervously.

"Erik, you're frightening me..." she murmured quietly.

"You have to stay with me at all times, Christine, do you hear? If you stray for even a moment then we're leaving," he threatened. She nodded, reaching for his arm.

"I promise, I won't. Anything else?" she asked curiously. He shook his head.

"No, there are a few things you would need to know if you came here alone, but that's never going to happen, so we'll leave those," he said, taking her hand in his. "Come on then, let's go," he smiled, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek and leading her through the passageway.

It quite amazed Christine, with the sheer expanse of it all. The tunnel was obviously manmade, with wood and stone used to hold up the roof and line the ground. Occasionally they would pass turn-offs that seemed endless, and Erik at one point made her walk with her back pressed against the wall and her feet not touching the wooden planks on the ground, but for the most part it just seemed like a long passageway. They walked for quite some time before Christine began asking questions.

"How long is it? We must have walked at least two or three miles by now," she commented thoughtfully.

"We're going in a spiral, Christine," he muttered simply. She glanced at the walls and noted the slight curve of them with a flush on her cheeks. She felt rather stupid already.

"Oh. So where are we going?" she asked, clutching tighter to his arm when a rat scampered past her shoes. It wasn't the first she had seen.

"I'm taking you below the stage first. But this is the long way there," he answered, halting suddenly, and stopping her march with him. He seemed terribly on edge and very tense. "Alright, Christine, you need to jump," he murmured. She looked to him with surprise.

"What? Jump? Where?" she demanded incredulously. He rapped his knuckles against his own globe three times, and the bright white light filled the passageway. As he held it up he illuminated a marking on the wall a little way ahead of them, it seemed nothing more than a bit of old stone, but there was a definite pinkish hue to it when compared to the rest of the wall. "See that marker? Can you jump from here to there?" he questioned. She measured up the distance in her head.

"I think so," she murmured.

"I'll go first. Stand right there, and be careful," he instructed, stepping back a few feet. With his long legs he easily bounded across to that marker, and turned to face her. "Step back a little, but make sure you don't step over that plank, the dark one," he directed.

She nodded, and stepped back five paces, giving her a good run up. She focused all her dancer's skills on the marker, and then ran, and leapt across the expanse of wooden planks. She gave a triumphant cry when she crossed it, but she wobbled back unsteadily, and if it weren't for Erik's quick reflexes, she would have fallen flat on her back. He pulled her up with a small smile.

"That was quite lucky," he muttered, glancing over her with concern.

"What would have happened?" she asked curiously.

"These planks here are about as sturdy as cardboard. There's a pit beneath it, it's not very deep, but there are some stones... sharp ones," he explained with a sigh. "I don't like this. I usually never have to worry about anyone else here," he said, glancing over her once more to ensure she was alright.

"Come on then, how much further?" she asked curiously, as he rapped his knuckles against his globe twice, and it returned to the dull red light.

"Only a little way now, but there's one more thing we need to be careful of before we get into the chamber. There are a number of different paths that lead off it, so it's a good place to start," he explained, taking her hand and leading her through the tunnel once more.

It occurred to her that she should feel more frightened, but somehow, knowing Erik was there... it was comforting. She knew how fiercely he would protect her if she were in danger.

"Alright, stop," he said, holding his arm out as they came to the end of the passageway, and before them was a small circular chamber with several other hallways leading off it. "This one is tricky. Do you see it?" he questioned, holding up his globe before him, to a point at about his waist. She focused her eyes until she caught a glimmer of something that reflected the red light. He tapped the globe, and suddenly, the blue light illuminated a very thin wire that stretched from one end of the doorway to the other.

"Couldn't that kill people?" she exclaimed in horror. He shook his head.

"Well, perhaps. If they ran at it very, very quickly, but it's not here to kill, just injure and frighten. It would snap before it did too much damage, but it would be very painful," he explained, bending down beneath the wire and then rising on the other side, instructing her to do so. She crawled carefully beneath it, and then rose to her feet beside him. "The aim is that you would be so injured you had to turn back the way you came. Nothing in that passageway could kill," he said, gesturing to it.

"But you have things here that could?" she asked doubtfully. He shrugged.

"Theoretically, yes. But you wouldn't be able to get so far that you would find them," he answered simply, taking her hand once more. He rapped on his globe twice, till the entire chamber was lit by the white light. "We're beneath the cellars now where the stagehands keep the larger props, and the lake is beneath us. Which way do you think we go?" he asked, with faint amusement on his lips.

"Well, we came from that way," she said, pointing behind her. "And... the cellars are that way from my dressing room..." she muttered thoughtfully, pointing before her. "So... to get to the stage, we go that way?" she said hopefully, pointing back behind her. He chuckled.

"You didn't take into account the curve of the tunnels. We actually came from that way," he informed her, pointing ahead. "We go this way. Another one of my clever tricks," he drawled, leading her to the doorway. He stopped her once more, and held the light up again. "This one is a bit harder, you won't be able to crawl under," he said, leaping over something that she couldn't see. He then leant over and picked her up from beneath her arms. "Bend your legs, pull them up to your chin," he instructed, carrying her across they entrance and depositing her beside him. He flashed the light by the doorway, and it caught a second piece of wire.

"Is this tunnel safer?" she asked hopefully. He shook his head.

"No, not this one," was all he said, but it was enough to send shivers of fear through Christine's spine.

He wasn't lying. It seemed that with every two minutes of walking there was another trap they had to avoid. Some she recognised from the first tunnel, several weak planks on the floor, and one, as Erik explained, was weighted as to cause your leg to slip into a pit and break as you tried to pull it up again. There were others that were a bit more dangerous, some more wire, a rope that seemed innocent enough, but had a spring mechanism that would loop around anything it was close to and pull it till and bones were crushed between the stones, and a false window where a ledge would fall down and smash your fingers if you attempted to open it and find some escape.

"Is this the lake?" she questioned incredulously when they stopped. Water lapped the stones beneath her feet as they stood on the edge of what seemed like a vast expanse of water. It looked so deep that it couldn't possibly have a bottom.

"No, this isn't it. It's just a façade, but it drains into the lake," he answered, stepping into the chasm. She screamed with fear that he would sink down into the never ending blackness, but was startled to see that the water only lapped around his shoes.

"How..."

"It's a trick. I painted the stones, and the lack of light makes it look like a chasm," he shrugged. "The opposite happens with the lake. It looks only a foot deep, but it's about three metres at its most shallow point," he informed her, taking her hand and leading her forwards. "Come, we need to stay on the sides. Certain bricks are traps, so it's safest to walk on the ledge," he explained, holding up his globe to reveal a small brick ledge that was almost impossible to decipher from the rest of the wall. You would have to know it was there to see it.

They shuffled along with their backs pressed against the wall, Christine once or twice losing her balance and splashing into the water, but Erik pulled her back before her feet found any of the booby trapped stones.

"There we go," he murmured, reaching for her to pull her safely to the ground as they had circled the 'lake', and were now in another passageway she wouldn't have noticed unless she were looking for it. "We're now beneath the stage, so we have to go up here. If you kept on going around the ledge, there's another passageway that leads to the gym and the dance rehearsal rooms," he explained, gesturing behind them.

"Did you do all of this?" Christine asked with surprise.

"A lot of it was already here, it just needed adjustments. The lake was always there, but I built this one. It took me three years," he said, taking her hand and leading her up the passageway. Thankfully that tunnel was mercifully light on the booby traps, but there were one or two she had to look out for. Soon the hallway was illuminated from the light coming in from ventilation shafts beneath the stage. "Now, you can get through that one from outside," he said, pointing to a loose piece of wood at the top of a long wooden banister one could slide down. "It's part of the back wall behind the curtains, you pull away one of the panels. You can't get out, though," he explained.

"That's not exactly helpful," she muttered. He chuckled.

"There's another way in that's a bit more covert. You could slip behind that and walk directly beneath the stage, but that's where the trap doors open to, and the managers know about it. It's how I joined you for your first performance of _Don Juan Triumphant_," he explained, bending down so she could see behind the wooden banister.

"I was wondering about that," she said thoughtfully.

"This passageway leads to the second entrance to your dressing room, as well. But we're not going there yet," he informed her. "I can't fit through this tunnel anymore. I used to when I was younger, but it doesn't do much. It leads into the stage hand dormitories, not that you'd need them," he shrugged.

"I bet I could fit," Christine commented thoughtfully, peering at the small entrance. It was just a tunnel on the floor; it looked like an overgrown mouse hole.

"I'm sure you could, but that's entirely theoretical, as you don't need to bother with it," he retorted, taking her hand and leading her up the tunnel behind the stage. They took a sharp right and Erik had to help Christine over a false floor that would empty into the trapdoor pit with a rather uncomfortable ending for whoever dared to inspect that entrance.

"Where is it?" Christine asked curiously, looking around when they came to the end of the tunnel. Erik smiled.

"Look up."

She glanced up atop her to see a door that was entirely unexpected. She raised her hand to pull at it, but he snatched it away immediately.

"Why would I be so obvious?" he exclaimed, instead pulling something from his pocket. It was a black bar about the size of a playing card, and a good inch thick. He held it up against the door, and slowly moved it back towards the handle, until they heard something click. "Alright, now you can open it," he nodded, putting the bar back in his pocket.

"What was that?" she exclaimed in surprise.

"A magnet. It's the only way to deactivate the spring from inside, or else it simply wouldn't open, no matter how hard you pulled, but the knob would shatter and cut your hand," he explained, reaching up and pulling down the door. She stepped back as a collapsible set of stairs slid out to her feet. "Go on, but don't step on this one, that one or the first," he instructed carefully, lightly tapping three planks of wood. She nodded, and carefully ascended, until she found herself standing on a small ledge in a very tiny little room. Erik followed her up and the two were pressed tightly against each other in that cramped space.

"Where are we?" she questioned as he attempted to bend down and pull the door up.

"Onstage, you'll find out in a second," he muttered, finally managing to nudge it up with his foot. "Alright, duck down, I need to get past you," he said, pulling something else from his pocket. Obligingly she slid down to her knees, until she was eye-level with his crotch. "This seems familiar," he sniggered, finally pulling a set of keys out. Christine rolled her eyes, but in the dark she was quite sure he couldn't see.

"You're disgusting."

"As I recall, it was a part of the incentive for me not to wear my mask. I'm not disgusting; I just drive a hard bargain," he defended teasingly, unlocking the secret door Christine had been pressed against. "Now. This opens inside, so..." he began apologetically, easing the door back. Christine stumbled back to her feet, and was pushed tightly against Erik's chest as he opened it. "I forgot that this particular entrance could be fun," he said with a sly grin.

Christine rolled her emerald eyes, and turned so she could see out the door he had opened.

It was black.

She stepped forwards, and was startled to feel soft velvet against her face.

"Are we inside a curtain?" she asked quietly, as Erik followed her out.

"Indeed we are," he smiled, tapping his globe until it turned off. She did the same with hers, and they were enveloped in darkness.

She reached around to find him, but discovered that his body was not where she had thought it was. She frowned, and wheeled round quickly, trying to find him with her outstretched hands. She felt fear suddenly fill her chest. Should she stay still, like he had said? She didn't think they were in the tunnels anymore, but she had no idea what to do!

"Erik?" she whispered, her voice revealing her anxiety. Suddenly she felt hands wrap around her waist and pull her forwards, and she let out a little yelp of surprise.

"Relax, angel, it's only me," Erik laughed, pulling her out of the expanse of curtains and back into the light. She slapped his arm harmlessly; feeling quite cross that he had made her so afraid.

"You frightened me," she said bitterly. He leant his forehead against hers and chuckled.

"Many apologies. You were very adorable when you were all caught up in the curtains," he teased, pressing a soft kiss to the side of her temple. "So. We're on the stage," he announced, pulling her away from the curtains. Christine looked around. They were in the left wing, and had exited from a secret panel behind one of the heavy back curtains, which were very rarely used.

"It's so... empty," she exclaimed, looking around. She was so used to seeing the stage full of life and energy, either in performance or in rehearsal. It was strange to see it completely deserted and abandoned.

"Mm. I prefer it like this," he smiled, strolling out onto the middle of the stage and staring out at the thousands of empty seats before him. The theatre was at its most beautiful when one stood on the stage, Christine felt.

"Is it safe to be here?" she whispered carefully. He grinned, and nodded.

"Oh, yes. I took the long way so we would have time. It's been cleaned and everyone has gone home to spend the next three days with their family. It's quite deserted," he assured her, gesturing for her to come out and join him on the centre stage.

She felt giddy and nervous, and laughingly shuffled out beside him. It was strange, she knew that stage so well from her performances there, but it was now something completely foreign to her.

"Why are you frightened?" he asked laughingly, taking her hands in his. She shrugged, and sighed thoughtfully, staring around her. He was smiling.

Truly smiling. It was a level of delight that she normally associated with him when they were in moments of intimacy, or when he had just made some sort of breakthrough with his music or inventions.

He looked completely at home on that stage. As if he belonged there, as if it were made for _him_. And yet he could never perform on it as the man she knew and loved. It was almost unbearable to contemplate.

"Doesn't it make you angry, sometimes?" she murmured, not even knowing why she spoke. His smile faded, and he lowered his head, pain flickering in his eyes as he stared at the floor.

He was silent for several moments, before speaking in a strained voice that held such aching.

"Yes. Unbelievably. It makes me... incensed," he confessed hoarsely, looking up to her with such raw emotion. He was open and vulnerable and suddenly seemed so very young. "It's all I've ever wanted. I've longed for it more than anyone else in the world ever could. I won't pretend it doesn't infuriate me," he shrugged, gazing at the world around him he was rejected from. "I didn't ask for this...curse. I didn't ask to be different. It's an unbearable sense of frustration that I should be denied the one thing that makes up my entire being. It isn't fair," he continued painfully, clutching tightly to her hands.

"And there's nothing we can do, Erik? Absolutely nothing?" she practically begged. He sighed.

"Trust me. I've been to everyone from plastic surgeons to witch doctors. It's not going to get much better," he replied, with the air of one who had been completely defeated. "But I don't need to perform, Christine. It's enough for me that I can see the woman I love, who loves me, despite my face, despite my curse, standing on this stage, singing my music," he assured her, and she didn't doubt his sincerity.

"I only hope I do it justice for you," she murmured, leaning forwards and capturing his lips in a soft kiss. He smiled against her mouth.

"More than that. You make my music shine, Christine. More so than my voice ever could," he insisted. She smiled at his words, and leant her head against his chest. "Come. There's still more to see," he urged her, after a moment had passed of them simply holding each other.

"What are you going to show me now?" she asked excitedly, as he lead her back through the wings.

"We're going to go up, this time," he said conspiratorially, taking her hand and flashing her a grin. He led her to the staircase behind the backdrop that the stage hands used to they could operate the hanging props and curtains from the platforms above.

Christine gave an excited laugh as she stepped onto the first platform after Erik. It wobbled as she moved, but she knew it was quite secure. He walked backwards, smiling at her as they made their way across the platform.

"Erik, look out!" she cried, when he stepped back to the expanse where the platform ended, and he disappeared. She screamed, and hurried to the edge, looking down.

But he wasn't there.

"Erik! Oh, God, where are you?" she cried frantically, looking around with desperation.

"Right here, angel," she heard his chuckle. She peered around until she spied the white of his mask. He stood perfectly safe on another platform below, before doing a bow.

"You – how – how did you –" she exclaimed, feeling her heart race in her chest. "Don't you _ever_ do that to me again!" she scolded, as he started to climb up the rope to the above platform.

"Sorry, love, I was only teasing," he smiled, pulling himself up to the platform before her. "Can you make it to this one?" he asked carefully. She regarded the space between the two hanging platforms. They both swayed a little, but she was sure she could make it.

She screamed when she stepped forwards and she felt herself falling back. Just before she fell, Erik's arms wrapped tightly around her body and pulled her back up to a standing position.

"Are you alright?" he demanded, almost angrily, as she stumbled to her feet. She nodded.

"Yes, I just... lost my footing," she sighed, pressing her head against his chest and holding him tightly. "Don't do that again, Erik. I don't even want you to joke about that. I've already lost you once, I couldn't do it again," she murmured. He smoothed back her dark hair.

"Sorry. But when I'm here, in this theatre, I'm always perfectly safe, and so are you, even though it might not seem like you are," he assured her. She nodded, and stepped back.

"Alright. So where to now?" she asked, peering over the sides of the platform. The stage looked very different from above. It was quite beautiful.

"Come on, let's keep moving," he instructed, taking her hand and leading her across two more platforms without incident. Finally they found themselves standing on the last platform, which led to the stairs on the other side of the stage.

"Are we going back down?" she asked, with slight disappointment. He smirked.

"Not quite."

He jumped to the wooden platform at the top of the stairs, which was completely secure, and helped her across. Then, using one of the curtain ropes to support him, he rose up to stand on the wooden ledge around that platform, and easily swung over to the nearest wall, his feet finding a ledge that Christine would never have noticed.

"Come on, your turn," he instructed, letting the rope swing back to her. She swallowed nervously, and gripped the rope to pull herself up. Taking a deep breath, she swung forwards and squeezed her eyes shut, certain she was about to fall to her death.

Erik's warm, strong arms around her frame and the feeling of secure ground beneath her feet filled her with a sense of relief, and she slowly opened her eyes. He was smiling down at her.

"Scared?" he asked. She nodded, and he gave a low, deep chuckle. "You get used to it, really. This was more my playground than anything else," he commented, pressing against a false panel behind them. She crawled through first, and found the roof of that secret place was only an inch from the top of her head, and Erik had to bend down as he followed her in. "I always meant to make this a little bigger, but it still works," he sighed, closing the panel and turning on his globe, filling the small passageway with red light.

She followed him through that passageway and they made a sharp left turn after stepping over some more wire and avoiding a faulty floor. Through small windows they could peer into each opera box where the fabulously wealthy would watch the productions, and where Erik could keep an eye on the patrons and managers. Some had false panels that they could use to enter the box, but Erik said he only used Box Five when he wished to watch the show.

He then led her through the walls to the offices, where there was a panel above the main manager's rooms where he dropped off notes. It was almost eerie that the theatre was so deserted, but she was too frightened that someone would barge in if they had a proper look around.

"Where are we going now?" Christine asked breathlessly, as she finished climbing up a stone wall at the end of the passageway, where Erik was sitting calmly on the side of the ledge.

"I thought we might look around backstage a bit more, and then I have a surprise for you," he said, helping her up.

"How long have we been down here?" she asked quietly, tapping her globe to illuminate the stone ledge where they sat. She couldn't see anyway out of that small cavern.

"A few hours. The sun will start to set soon," he answered thoughtfully.

"Where are we?"

"Under the grand foyer. If we went that way," he said, holding up his own globe and illuminating a large stone to his left that looked slightly different to the others, "We would find ourselves in the mirror room. But I don't want to go there," he explained, shining the light to his right. "We'll be going this way. There's another passage that leads back to the main chamber, but it has turn-offs backstage and in the wings," he informed her, leaning across and pressing down on the stone. Christine jumped back in surprise as it slid away seemingly of its own accord.

"How did you do that?" she exclaimed.

"Weights and pullies. Quick, it only stays open for a moment," he instructed, pushing her through and then following her hastily, just in time for the stone to roll back into place.

"When are we going to see the lake, Erik?" she asked excitedly, holding up her globe to illuminate the walls and passageway. It was made of stone this time, and looked as if it had been there for centuries.

"I'd rather leave the lake for another time. It's getting late, and you're cold," he replied, lowering the light of his globe.

"But I want to see it! I want to see where you lived!" she insisted. He sighed.

"We'll see, but for now, I want to show you something else."

As he led her through that tunnel he explained how he had found it there many years ago, and used it as the foundation for his system of passageways that ran beneath the theatre. There were less traps in that tunnel, but several things that were still quite alarming.

"Is that... blood?" Christine exclaimed with disgust, when she spied a large red stain over the walls and floor.

"No, it's a mixture of paint. If it were really blood, it would be a very dark brown by now," he answered, using his globe to illuminate the stain for her. "I put it there to frighten people. I used to have some bones, too, but I felt that was a little too much," he shrugged, taking her hand and leading her past the stains.

They came to a large, heavy iron gate after they had been walking for some time. There seemed to be no mechanism with which to operate it, and for a moment Christine was quite certain they were stuck.

"How do we get past?" she questioned. It obviously hadn't been made by Erik. It looked well over a hundred years old.

"Normally, we wouldn't. I rarely use this passageway, I'm afraid someone might know about it, because I certainly didn't make it," he answered, digging in his pocket once more for the magnet.

"You mean some of this was already here?" she asked, quite alarmed. He nodded.

"Yes. I think there was someone else down here, once. But it's hard to tell," he replied. He stepped past her to the heavy wooden beams on either side of the gate, and passed it slowly across the wood until he heard a loud click, and the gate gave an almighty groan before it slid upwards.

"Did you do that, or was it already there?"

"No, that was me. Before you could only open it from the other side," he explained, slipping the magnet back into his pocket. He pushed her through the gate before it could rise up completely, and it was lucky he did it was such haste, because the moment the gate reached the ceiling it gave a loud groan and slid back to the ground like a guillotine. Christine clutched to Erik as she watched the heavy iron chains operating the gate rattle back into place.

"That could kill," she muttered quietly. He nodded.

"Yes. Another reason why you don't come down here without me," he said calmly, taking her hand and leading her further through the passageway. They walked only a little further before Erik stopped at another weighted stone and they slipped into yet another passageway, this one obviously made by his own hand.

Christine was aware that they were ascending for quite some time before she realised just where they were headed. When they were once again inside the actual theatre, walking through hidden staircases and climbing through the walls, she started to get suspicious, but it wasn't until she could hear the hustle and bustle of Paris that she realised.

"This is what I wanted to show you," Erik said proudly, using his magnet to open another trapdoor and allowing her to ascend first.

It was stunning. All of Paris, covered in a beautiful layer of white snow, with the city lights flashing against the dark clouds and the sun nothing more than a red orb hanging over the buildings, contrasting against the pure white snow that swirled delicately around them.

"It's beautiful," she whispered, staring down at the people going about their business before Christmas Day.

"Yes. Very," he replied quietly.

She turned to see that his gaze was fixed on her, not on the wonders of the city before them. She blushed, and turned, reaching for his hand. He took it gladly, and pressed a soft kiss to her skin.

"I didn't think I would ever be able to share this with anyone, you know," he commented, wrapping one arm around her shoulders and gently easing her into his chest. She sighed contentedly, trying to commit the sight to her memory. She couldn't imagine anything more beautiful.

"Well, you have me to share it with, now," she smiled. He smiled, and pressed a soft kiss to her dark curls.

"Yes, I do."

She didn't know how long they stayed there in complete silence, just watching the city beneath them. After what could have been hours he finally spoke again.

"I want to make sure you know that... I'm very happy I found you. Even though that doesn't seem to cover it," he said quietly. She wanted to turn into his chest and kiss him, but somehow, she knew that would spoil the moment. She didn't reply, because words weren't needed.

Eventually Erik decided it was getting too chilly for her, and they headed back into the passageway.

"Can we still see the lake?" she asked hopefully. He chuckled at her enthusiasm.

"Another day, child. Come along now, I don't want you getting ill, _Don Juan Triumphant_ still has several weeks left," he teased, taking her hand as he closed the trapdoor.

Christine wanted to object, but the truth was that she was tired, and she didn't think she had the energy for it. So she took his hand, and followed him through the passageways. When they finally returned to her dressing room, about half the day had passed and they were both famished.

"Today was wonderful, Erik," Christine sighed happily, as they walked quietly through the back streets to get to their apartment as inconspicuously as possible.

"I'm glad you had fun," he smiled, entwining their fingers.

She _did_ have fun. She was ridiculously happy, and it might have simply been the approaching Christmas, but she was certain it was something else. Her life was complete, she decided. Things had never been better than what they were at that moment.

Christine could be forgiven for thinking that this state of bliss would never end, for she could not know the twisted turn of events that would soon throw her life into chaos.

**A/N: I'm not updating as often as I would like, but only three more weeks of the semester, guys! Then I can write for almost two months :D I'm very excited ^_^**

**This chapter might seem like just filler, or perhaps a foreshadowing... but careful. Some things are red herrings, some things are very important :D**


	37. The Holiday

"Erik, please. I know this might seem difficult, but I –"

"_Difficult_?" Erik repeated, turning sharply to face Charles Daaé with a scowl fixed on his lips. "What do you expect me to do about this, Daaé?" he demanded. Charles sighed.

"I'm not expecting anything, Erik... I merely hope you might..." he sighed, leaning forwards at his kitchen table and resting his head in his hands. "I didn't mean to burden you with this. But my family, Aina's family, they're all gone. I don't have anyone I can really trust," he explained weakly.

Erik began to pace around the room, anger practically radiating off his very presence. It was quite a surprise to be informed of something so significant. He was mildly surprised that Charles had thought to confide in him, but that didn't help the gravity of the announcement.

"Does she know?" he demanded, glancing through the kitchen window to see where a young girl of eleven years played outside in the garden, her long brown hair spilling down her back as she chased a stray cat that sometimes appeared in their garden. Her cheeks were pink with the cold snow that had gathered outside, one mittened hand desperately clutching onto her hat as she scampered through the bushes in search of the tabby.

"No. How could I tell her, Erik? She's a child," Charles sighed sadly, lowering his gaze. "Things were very hard when Aina passed. How could we live, knowing that in a few years she'll lose another parent?" he questioned incredulously, as if he was genuinely searching for an answer.

"Well what will happen to her then?"

"Erik... when you first visited last year, you said you wanted to take her back to France with you," Charles began slowly, looking up at the younger man with pleading eyes. Erik stared back at him in horror.

"Do you want me to adopt her?" he exclaimed with disgust. Charles firmly shook his head.

"No. I don't think I'll pass away before she turns of age, but if I do..." he sighed, and turned to glance back outside at his daughter. "I want her to follow in her mother's footsteps. She's talented, Erik," he murmured.

"Your wife was talented. Christine is _gifted_," he replied boredly. Charles gave a soft smile.

"Yes. My little angel," he practically whispered, before turning back to the younger man. "Erik, I want you to teach her. When I'm gone, I want you to look after her, to guide her, to help her become the star I know she can be," he insisted. Erik looked rather grave.

"I know what I said then, but things have changed now. I don't know a thing about children, Daaé. I can teach her to sing, but I can't raise her to be good and kind," he replied quite honestly. Charles smiled.

"Her mother taught her that. And soon she won't need much more raising, so hopefully I'll be with her until that time," he replied, sounding genuinely quite sincere in his optimism. "And, when I do pass, I'll know that you will care for her."

"You put a lot of trust in me, Daaé," Erik murmured. Charles nodded.

"Yes, I do. So, do you promise to care for her? To guard and guide her when I'm gone?" he questioned anxiously. Erik cast a thoughtful glance to the window.

"Yes. I promise," he answered finally, before sighing. "I am sorry, Daaé," he added sadly. Charles shrugged.

"It's life. We all have to go someday," he said simply. "Will you stay for Christmas, Erik? She's been learning some carols, I'm sure she'd be happy to sing for you," he smiled hopefully.

Erik shook his head. "No. I don't celebrate Christmas, it's just another day to me," he declined.

"Then why did you bring Christine a present?" Charles challenged with a teasing grin, glancing to the box that sat on the side of the kitchen table.

"I've brought her presents before," Erik frowned.

"Did you make her another toy? She likes your inventions," he commented, glancing to the package curiously.

"It's a music box. Just a small little trinket," he shrugged slightly sheepishly. Charles smiled.

"Please. Stay for Christmas, I think she would like that," he requested gently. Erik shook his head firmly.

"I don't know if I can really... look at her now. Not after what you've told me," he sighed, somewhat painfully. Charles grimaced, and nodded.

"I understand. It's hard to accept it," he shrugged. "But you will come again soon? There are some arrangements that need to be made, and I will need you here for those," he appealed hopefully. Erik nodded.

"Yes. I will come in a few months, when I can find some time," he said briskly, straightening his jacket. "Well... I truly am sorry, Daaé," he muttered, before giving a small nod, and slipping out of the kitchen without another word.

Charles sighed. Erik wasn't as sorry as he was himself.

* * *

"Now, the vegetables are fairly easy, Christine, but I like to add a few things to bring out the flavours," Madame Giry said in a booming voice, as she finished peeling the final potato. "Semolina is very useful for adding texture. And I find a little butter makes all the difference," she insisted, placing the bowl of glistening potatoes before the young girl in the small but cosy kitchen of Madame Giry's Parisian apartment.

Christine cast a desperate glance to the living room, where Erik was watching her with a small smirk on his lips and a glass of wine in his hand. The last few hours had been an endless stream of cooking and baking and stirring and straining, so much so that Christine was quite regretting asking Madame Giry to show her how to make a Christmas dinner.

"Stop smirking. You're not supposed to take enjoyment out of your wife's suffering," Nadir scolded. Erik chuckled, and took a sip of his wine.

"But she looks rather adorable when she's being tortured," he commented laughingly.

Christine rolled her eyes and poked her tongue out at her husband when she heard his comment, before reluctantly allowing Madame Giry to show her the best way to chop the potatoes.

"Does this sort of thing always happen at Christmas? I might celebrate it more often, if that's the case," Erik chuckled, glancing back to Nadir.

"I believe the point of this exercise is so that next year, Christine can cook Christmas Dinner herself, Erik, so I doubt you're going to get as much amusement out of it," he replied dryly, taking a mouthful of wine.

"Nadir, don't be rude," Madame Giry scolded from the kitchen. Nadir chuckled.

"Of course not. Never."

The two men began to snigger to themselves after Christine and Madame Giry's pointed glares, before the ladies resumed their cooking.

It had been a reasonably quiet Christmas. Christine had the misfortune of having to join Raoul for a Christmas breakfast, where he showered her with gifts she would never need or want, before he left on his brother's personal plane to spend the rest of Christmas day in Marseilles with his family. Christine declined to join him, claiming a dislike of flying, and he reluctantly left her behind in Paris with Nadir.

As soon as Raoul was gone Christine hurried over to Madame Giry's to begin her _real_ Christmas celebrations with her true friends and family. They had exchanged gifts; Christine bought Madame Giry some sweet-smelling soaps, a silk shawl and a brooch, and for Nadir she had been scouring every bookshop in France to find a book about architecture in English. He had laughed in surprise and delight when he opened his gift, as he had confessed himself that he didn't like receiving presents. Erik had also made an attempt to find Nadir a present, but she was quite certain he had a bit of a sense of humour about his gift, particularly considering it was a book in Farsi that had caused Nadir to blush when he glanced at the title, and Erik to snigger.

"What? I thought you would be grateful," Erik had defended himself when Nadir attempted to throw the book at him.

"You do realise that the most likely woman I would ever use this information on would be your wife, right?" Nadir retorted with a raised brow. Erik opened his mouth to object, and then frowned.

"Damn you, Daroga," he grumbled, as Nadir started to snigger and Madame Giry and Christine looked on in confusion.

Everyone agreed unanimously that it finding a gift for Erik was almost as difficult as finding one for Nadir. He had snorted and claimed he didn't need anything, but was happy enough to give presents to others. Christine didn't know what he gave to Madame Giry, but she was quite sure she could guess when she saw them arguing over a white envelope that Erik was urging her to take. She reluctantly accepted it from him after a few minutes of conflict, and she had slight tears in her eyes with thanks.

"How much did you give her?" Christine whispered curiously to Erik when he returned to sit by her on the sofa. She was not upset in the least, she knew that they had plenty of money between them and she wished for nothing more than to share that money with her friends and family, but she was only concerned that Madame Giry might have some financial troubles she had not realised.

"Enough for her to get a slight change of scene," he answered quietly, watching the woman disappear into her bedroom to hide the envelope. "She can spend it how she likes, but I think she would like a holiday," he shrugged simply. Christine smiled, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He could be quite sweet when he wanted.

Madame Giry, for her part, had evidently thought out her gifts quite well. For Erik she gave a new violin bow (he had destroyed his last one by throwing it out the window in a fit of creative energy) and a large stack of manuscript paper, knowing that he went through it very quickly and he wasn't able to really walk through Paris in search of quality paper by himself. For Christine she gave things a little closer to the heart; a beautiful hand-sewn bag that Aina Daaé had made for Madame Giry to carry Meg's baby things, and a large book of lullabies, several of which Christine recognised from her childhood.

"This is... Madame Giry, I can't take this. She made it for you and Meg," Christine insisted with teary eyes as she held the bag in her shaking hands. She didn't have a lot of things that belonged to her mother anymore. Her father had gotten rid of a lot of them out of the pain of losing his wife.

"I haven't used it in sixteen years, Christine. You're lucky, this style is quite fashionable now, no one would know it's a baby bag," she explained with a warm smile, before sharing a secretive little glance with Nadir.

"Why would you put a baby in that?" Erik questioned with a frown, leaning over his wife's shoulder to inspect the bag. "It doesn't look particularly strong. What could Christine use it for?" he asked curiously.

"You're a complete idiot, Erik," Nadir drawled.

"You don't put babies in it, Erik. You put their things in there," Madame Giry explained, clearly exasperated with him.

"I could put my ballet things in here, Erik. And big bags are in fashion now," Christine explained, rolling her eyes at her husband. But Erik looked from the bag to the book of lullabies, and then up to the smirking Madame Giry and Nadir.

"Very subtle," he drawled, picking up the book and flicking through it.

"Are you sure you don't mind me keeping this? I mean, she _did_ make it for you," Christine questioned Madame Giry. The older woman smiled and nodded.

"Of course. I'm sure you'll find some use for it," she replied with a twinkle in her eyes, before the two shared a warm hug.

Nadir had given Christine several trinkets that were obviously Persian, probably from the quick trip he had taken back to Iran a week or two ago to meet with the partners of the architectural company he worked with. She had often asked Nadir questions about Iran, and so she was thrilled to receive such beautiful things; a hand-made shawl with beautiful gold brocade, a small silver box with the sea engraved on the lid which held a few pieces of jewellery.

"I couldn't find an anklet like I described to you, but one day, make Erik drag you over to Iran to see a marketplace. These are just a few examples of what you'll find there," he assured her with a warm smile.

"Unlikely. I think there's still a warrant out for me in Iran, and it's too dangerous there now anyway," Erik replied warningly, sliding a framed picture out of its wrapping paper. "Why do you wrap them in coloured paper? I don't understand it," he grumbled, fighting against the sticky tape.

"He's really never celebrated Christmas?" Christine exclaimed, watching her husband wrestle with the paper.

"I invited him when he was still living in Paris, and so did your parents, but he always said no. I don't know if anyone has ever explained the concept of Christmas to him," Madame Giry frowned thoughtfully.

"Is it a usual custom of Christmas to wrap things in seven layers of paper?" Erik demanded in annoyance.

"No, I just did that to annoy you," Nadir shrugged. Erik sent him a withering glare, and finally managed to tear away the bright red paper. "I got it in Iran. It struck me as familiar," he smirked as Erik's brows rose in surprise.

"Oh! That reminds me of the garden back at the castle!" Christine exclaimed in surprise, inspecting the picture. It was a beautiful illumination of a garden in a distinctively Persian style, if the colours were anything to go by. There was a slightly western hint to the landscaping of garden, however, particularly the roses that climbed over the stone walls.

"Well it should be, I designed both of them, and I reused some ideas back in the castle," Erik answered shortly. He said something to Nadir in Farsi that she was quite sure was some sort of thank you, and Nadir responded in the same language.

"Erik, you designed this?" Madame Giry asked in surprise. Erik turned back to the picture and nodded.

"Yes. When I was working for an Iranian politician's wife," he explained simply. "It was part of the... well; I suppose it was really a palace. Only a few people were allowed to go into this garden, though," he added.

"I spoke to the man who was selling it, but he refused to tell me how he had seen it. He was just in the markets, he had several other paintings and drawings I recognised, but I thought you might like this," Nadir shrugged.

"I do. Thank you, Daroga," Erik muttered, before tearing his eyes away from the picture and smiling. "Right. Well, now we've got that out of the way –"

"What, you didn't get anything for Christine? How rude," Nadir laughed. Erik sat the picture down on the table with a small smirk.

"Oh no. I'm waiting til we're alone for that."

"You can borrow my book, if you want," Nadir offered teasingly.

"I already have one. Besides, you're the one who probably needs direction," he returned with a smirk.

"I'm going to have a look at it," Christine declared, reaching over for Nadir's book that sat harmlessly on the table.

"No!" Erik and Nadir cried in unison, Nadir snatching the book off her before she could open it. She looked to them suspiciously.

"What exactly is in this book?" she demanded sternly. Erik gave an impetuous huff.

"I'll tell you when you're older," he replied quietly. She rolled her eyes.

"Nadir, I apologise on behalf of my husband. He's a bit of an idiot," she said to Nadir, who was trying to hide his sniggers.

"I know. Apology accepted."

And with that, Nadir left to put the book in his car where inquisitive young sopranos wouldn't glance at it to see if it was what she thought it was. Christine and Madame Giry started preparing dinner in the kitchen, and when Nadir returned, he and Erik started on a bottle of wine in the living room.

Christine could tell that Madame Giry liked having someone around for Christmas. She confessed that in the custody arrangement between her and her ex-husband; Meg's father, Meg would spend two weeks of December in Lyon, and so her Christmases were usually alone. So it brought great pleasure to the woman to be able to exchange presents and cook with friends, and especially to teach Christine how to cook a Christmas dinner.

So, mostly to bring a smile to Madame Giry's face, Christine did her best to keep up with the woman as she showed her how to make the puddings and the stuffing and the gravy for Christmas dinner over the next few hours.

So, together they ate and laughed and drank as the night slipped by. Everything turned out well, even those things that Christine cooked, and the company was just as good as the food. Christine couldn't recall having a better Christmas since she was a little girl.

"So where will you be for Christmas next year, Erik?" Madame Giry asked as the evening started to wind down, and they were eating Christmas pudding with brandy custard.

"The castle, I suppose," he replied, glancing to Christine, who shrugged. "I guess we'll see. But I might have to hire someone to haunt the theatre in my absence," he drawled teasingly.

"Oh, the ballet corps will find something else to giggle and gossip about, don't worry," Madame Giry assured him.

"All the same, someone needs to terrorise those two idiot managers into putting on a decent show," he smirked. "An occasional note, a mask pressed against their window or a cold draft with the door closed, all I need to have them trembling in fear," he added laughingly as Madame Giry rolled her eyes.

"You let them see you?" Christine exclaimed in surprise. Suddenly the room fell silent.

"Well... sometimes," Erik shrugged, a little perturbed by her shock. "They need occasional taps on the shoulder to remember I'm there, Christine. A little clue every now and then, it makes sure they don't get too cocky," he explained. Nadir sent a silencing glance to Erik, but he ignored it.

"I didn't know you let them see you," Christine murmured, her voice strained with concern. He gave her a consoling smile.

"Well, not all of me, but I do occasionally have to make an appearance."

Christine nodded, as if to say she understood, but she didn't really. The thought of Erik putting himself in danger like that sent chills down her spine. She thought that he was always secure and safe, hidden within the walls or the ceiling, where they could never find him. She hadn't thought that he was appearing in person. It made everything seem much direr.

She didn't bring the topic up again, but she knew Erik could sense her concern. When they finally returned home later that night, he wrapped her up in his arms and they lay atop their bed in silence.

"I'm careful, Christine," he assured her, after a long time when no words were exchanged. She nodded, her back pressed against his chest and his head buried in her long dark curls.

"I know, but... I worry," she sighed softly, opening her dark eyes to watch the snow swirl outside in the Parisian streets. He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, and then stumbled to his feet. The wine had made him slightly tipsy, and he lacked his usual grace and elegance.

"I did get you something, you know," he informed her, pulling open one of the drawers in his wardrobe. She too sat up, and leant over to her bedside table to take his gift out. "Hmm. I see you thought about this too," he chuckled, as he sat himself down on the bed beside her. He held in his hands a small, plain wooden box.

"What did you get me?" she asked excitedly, her anxiety forgotten. He chuckled at her enthusiasm.

"I could ask you the same question," he commented with a raised brow, glancing at the present she held for him.

"Do you have any idea how difficult it is to shop for you? I had no idea what you might like," she defended, passing him a gift bag with a jolly Father Christmas on the front that made him roll his eyes.

She gave him a few things. In the bag were one or two books she thought he might be interested in, mostly for the pictures, as she knew he loved art and drawing, as well as a very handsome gold watch to replace the one he had thrown at a wall in the same burst of creative energy that had seen the destruction of his violin bow, and finally a jade earring, which was more of a joke present than anything.

"Nadir and Madame Giry had a few pictures of you that they gave me copies of a while ago," she explained with a small grin, leaning back over to the bedside table. She knew that he hated photos of himself, and she had never pressed him for any, but it was nice to see pictures of him when he was younger.

She flicked through the small album she had made, until she found the one she was looking for. It was Erik, looking rather disgruntled at a camera that she knew had been held by Nadir. He was leaning against a fridge in a kitchen she knew to be Nadir's from his home back in Iran, and Reza, then only a toddler, was tugging at his trousers. Dangling from one of Erik's ears was a long red jewel that looked almost like a fang. His hair was much longer than it was now, and tied back in a loose ponytail, making him look more like a gypsy boy than ever.

"So when did you stop wearing earrings?" she questioned, as he rolled his dark eyes.

"A few years ago, I only ever wore one. It was pierced when I was with the gypsies, but I stopped wearing it when I cut my hair," he explained simply, glancing over the photos. "The Daroga thinks it made me look like a gangster. And _you_, you little heathen, you almost tore my ear in half when you were two and you decided you took a liking to it," he scowled, causing Christine to laugh.

"Well, you don't have to wear it. But I kind of like it," she smiled. He rolled his eyes.

"Good to hear. Thank you," he replied, pressing a small kiss to her forehead, and then leaning back. "So, you made it very difficult for me to find something for you, insisting you don't need clothes or jewellery or anything," he declared, sliding the box across the bed to sit before Christine. "Open it, and see if it's familiar," he smiled.

Curiously she opened the wooden box, and took out the papier-mâché music box she found there. Her eyes widened in surprise. It was a little monkey wearing a waistcoat and a fez, with a pair of cymbals held in his paws. Instinctively she reached for the small handle on the back and turned it, before a little tune sounded and the monkey started to clap his cymbals together.

"You said you liked it, so I made you a new one. It's exactly the same, it even plays the same song," he informed her with a soft smile.

"Thank you. I – I really love it," she murmured happily, leaning forwards and reaching for Erik in a tight embrace.

It really had been the perfect Christmas. She couldn't imagine a more perfect day where she could be with her friends and husband, exchanging gifts, drinking, eating, talking, and genuinely enjoying themselves.

It was perfect.

* * *

The week following Christmas was a welcome refrain to all from the theatre that allowed rest, recuperation, and in the case of Raoul and the managers, a great deal of planning.

"Do you believe this girl, monsieur?" André questioned the Vicomte warily as the young gentleman paced his beautifully decorated parlour.

"I hardly know what to believe anymore. I see only three conclusions," he replied, turning briskly and walking the length of the room for what felt like the thousandth time. "That there was no marriage, and the girl lied, or was simply confused," he began factually.

"We would hope," Firmin muttered beneath his breath.

"Second, Christine has married the foreigner. But I think that's very unlikely," he continued smartly, his voice booming around the room.

"It would explain why he refuses to cooperate with us anymore," André grumbled to his companion, who was seated beside him on the divan.

"_Or_, the Phantom has somehow revealed himself to Christine and manipulated her into a marriage. We already know how powerful his skills of exploitation are, and she's still weak," he finished, halting before the two gentleman, who shared a doubtful glance between them.

"Or perhaps, my dear Vicomte..." André began carefully, clearing his throat. "It could be that she didn't... require so much by way of manipulation..." he trailed off quietly.

"Are you suggesting that my precious Christine actually _consented_ to a marriage with that beast?" Raoul spat darkly. The managers shifted uncomfortably.

"Well, she was _very_ upset when she came here, and now... she's very happy," Firmin offered weakly.

"She's _happy_ because she knows this production will soon end, and we can live together peacefully," Raoul snapped, sending the two men a withering glare.

"But, you must admit... she shows no signs of –"

"Christine loves _me_, do you hear?" Raoul cried furiously, his mask of calm shattered. "She would never choose that monster over me, so don't you even suggest it!" he practically roared.

"Of course not, Vicomte! We're very sorry," André insisted immediately. Raoul glared at the two, and then took a deep breath, continuing his pacing.

"We need more _information_. Are you sure you couldn't get anything else out of that woman?" he barked.

"Madame Giry refused to be questioned. She's a very strong woman, monsieur. I think it would be wise to go for the daughter, instead. She might know more," André replied. Raoul nodded thoughtfully.

"I'll get in contact with her soon. But we need to consider our options," he stated, pausing his march, and staring evenly at the two men. "I was studying the plans for the opera house, and I noticed something," he began, his voice made eerily dangerous.

"Those plans are no longer accurate, Vicomte, we have –"

"I don't care. For what we need, they are still true," Raoul snapped, interrupting Firmin's pleas. "The question remains on how to destroy the Phantom once and for all. I originally thought an explosion of some sort, or perhaps a fire," he continued, strolling around the room with practised ease. André and Firmin both watched him carefully.

"Monsieur, no. Never. We could not destroy the Phantom's lair without bringing down the entire theatre," André insisted, but Raoul only waved him off.

"I _know_ that, for goodness' sake," he replied curtly. "No. What I'm thinking is entirely the opposite. There is a lake beneath the theatre, no?" he questioned, halting before the divan where the two managers sat.

"Yes... but... we believe that is in the very centre of the Phantom's domain," Firmin explained weakly, as if he could sense Raoul's intentions.

"And it connects to the Seine?" he demanded. The two gentlemen nodded slowly. "Something must be there to lessen the flow of the water, or else all those caverns would be filled. If we could close off all exits from the Phantom's lair, and somehow destroy whatever dam or barrier he has from the Seine, we would flush him out. Literally," he smirked, folding his arms across his chest in a gesture of superiority.

"Well... that wouldn't damage the theatre, would it?" André murmured to Firmin, who looked thoughtful.

"I don't _think_ so..."

"And water damage is much easier to fix than fire."

"We would seal everything before. Make sure no water could get in, anyway."

"Be a good time to renew our insurance against flooding, regardless."

"Could you two stop thinking about _money_ for just one moment?" Raoul barked, interrupting their conversation.

"Well it's all well and good for you to launch a vendetta against the Phantom, but it's _our_ theatre and _our_ livelihoods!" André objected bitterly. Raoul rolled his eyes.

"You will of course, be reimbursed for any losses."

This brightened the faces of the two managers, who now sat up attentively.

"How kind, dear Vicomte!"

"Very generous of you, to be sure."

"Yes, yes, now we still need more information from that girl, Meg. We just need to know how to get in," Raoul muttered thoughtfully, before running a hand through his hair and giving a tired sigh. "Alright, you two can go home. I'm going to try to speak to Kahn. I _know_ that he knows something," he decided. André and Firmin gratefully rose from the divan and shuffled out of the room before anymore conversation could ensue.

Raoul strolled to the window after the managers had gone, and stared out to the busy Parisian street outside. At just a few days after Christmas, the city was once again alive with energy, despite the bitter cold that was running through the streets. But Raoul didn't notice the cold; his mind was focused on Christine.

Deep in his heart, he knew that she would never be the same young girl that he had played with over the summers, or even the young woman who he had got to know in Paris until a year ago. He knew that by shooting Erik, something in her had died.

He was surprised about how unaffected he had been after shooting Erik. He was in some way relieved to know now that he hadn't killed him, and the man still lived; because he had been haunted by images of that man dying and the knowledge that there was a life on his hands for months. But had he the choice, he would much prefer that Erik or the Phantom or whoever he was had stayed dead.

But... to keep him dead, he needed help. And there was only one man he knew who could pull off what he had planned.

**A/N: Next chapter, new character! One of my favourites, cos he's a bad guy :D**


	38. The Lion

"Oh. Splendid," Nadir drawled the moment he pulled open the door to his apartment, only to see Raoul standing before him. "What do you want? Are you looking for Christine?" he demanded curtly. Raoul stared at him with slight confusion.

"I... want speak. _To_ speak. With you," he stated, in his poor English. Nadir sighed.

"How?" he retorted with a raised brow, crossing his arms.

Raoul stepped back for a moment, and suddenly ushered a rather handsome gentleman into the room. He was tall and broad of chest, with the same sandy blonde hair as Raoul, and perfectly neat from his pale blonde moustache and goatee to his shining black brogues. He carried himself with the air of a very important man, with an expensive suit and gold watch hanging around his wrist. On his smallest finger he wore a heavy gold ring with some sort of coat of arms, a lion and a swan. Nadir supposed that where this man, clearly some sort of relation to Raoul, was the lion, Raoul was easily the swan; his only true purpose was to sit and look pretty.

"Monsieur, my name is Comte Philippe de Chagny. I am Raoul's older brother," the man introduced, with a low, musical sort of voice that was completely out of character for the large, intimidating man that he appeared, taking up Nadir's whole doorway. His English was perfect, or at least just as good as Nadir's, and there was a sense of surety about him that Raoul lacked.

"Nadir Kahn. But I suppose you knew that already," Nadir replied wryly, stepping aside. He was in no mood to argue with anyone, least of all Raoul de Chagny's big brother. He led the two into his apartment, and invited them wordlessly to take a seat. "Would you like some tea, or coffee?" he asked almost mindlessly.

"No, we are quite fine," Philippe replied shortly, seating himself on the sofa beside his brother. He looked slightly impatient, but he was much more at ease than Raoul appeared.

"Well then, what is it your brother wished to discuss with me?" Nadir questioned, seating himself on the armchair opposite the sofa.

"I was called into Paris last night by my brother, regarding this Christine Daaé girl and some sort of spectral creature apparently haunting the opera house where Raoul has been spending vast amounts of our parent's money," Philippe began briskly, straightening his tie. Nadir could tell he was a man who paid fastidious attention to his appearance.

"And what does this have to do with me, monsieur?" Nadir replied dryly, anticipating the answer. Philippe gave him a small, wry smile.

"Well, as Raoul has explained to me, you have information about the location of some sort of underground lair, and he needs it for the safety of Daaé," he informed him quite simply. Nadir chuckled, and glanced to the younger man, who was staring through the open door of the guest bedroom.

"Tell your brother he can go through her possessions, or do whatever else he wishes, but I won't tell him anything," he answered calmly. Philippe smiled, and nodded.

"My brother didn't just bring me here as a translator, monsieur Kahn. I am responsible for the de Chagny finances, and I can assure you; you will be rewarded for any information you can provide," he retorted, his musical voice making the entire thing seem playful and teasing, but they both knew otherwise.

"Money? What would I want with that?" Nadir chuckled. "No, I helped your brother before, and what happened? Christine was made even more miserable. She's perfectly happy here, with me, where she can start to forget the hell she's been put through," he said. Philippe nodded once more.

"Between you and I, I really don't give a damn about what becomes of Christine," he replied, leaning back in the sofa. Raoul looked between them with confusion, but he still didn't understand. "I want my brother away from this theatre, away from Paris. Marseilles is where he belongs, and if he brings back a little wife with him, then I don't mind. But I won't have him wasting away the family fortune on some goose chase for a man who might or might not be dead," he snapped. That voice held a rather dangerous quality when angered.

"You've come to the wrong man. _I_ care about what happens to Christine, probably more than anyone else does," Nadir growled, growing tired and frustrated of the conversation and of the man's cool civility. "The only person who might care for her more is Erik, the man your brother wants to see dead. But I won't have it, I won't have Christine's heart broken again, not for the sake of bruised pride," he spat.

"So does Christine know this man is not dead?" Philippe questioned with a raised brow. Nadir rolled his eyes.

"Did your brother tell you that he shot Erik, right in front of Christine? That he did it in cold blood, even though Erik was unarmed and had no possible hope for defence? That he hadn't even explained himself?" Nadir demanded pointedly. Philippe's mouth twitched slightly, and he glanced to his brother, who was still looking between the pair with confusion.

"No. He didn't. He didn't mention who killed him, or under what circumstances," he muttered, between clenched teeth. Nadir scoffed.

"Yes, how very convenient for him," he snapped. "She saw him die. But don't you think she's suspicious, now? She's being driven mad by what she thinks is his _ghost_. I refuse to help your brother make her relive the pain of her lover's death again, even if she doesn't know that he still walks amongst the living," he almost barked. Philippe looked at him severely.

"Raoul thought you might be in love with her," he muttered coolly. Nadir rolled his dark eyes.

"What if I am? What does it have to do with you?" he demanded. Philippe shrugged his wide shoulders.

"Very little. I only do the numbers. But she's still engaged to my brother, and I would rather avoid any scandal," he said briskly. "So why is she marrying Raoul, if he killed her 'lover', as you call this man?" he questioned with a slight frown.

"Because she's confused. I've tried to talk her out of it," he shrugged. Philippe smirked.

"Oh, I'm sure you have."

Nadir surveyed the man before him with narrowed eyes before speaking again.

"I'm sorry, I believe your whelp of a brother wished to speak with me?" he reminded him coolly. Philippe's smirk grew, as he turned to Raoul, and muttered something in French. The two spoke for a moment, before the count turned back to Nadir.

"He said he'll do anything for you to help. He only wishes to keep Christine safe," he declared mindlessly.

"His brand of security is very different to mine. _I'm_ keeping her safe, he needn't worry," Nadir answered coolly. Philippe spoke with Raoul for another moment, and the younger of the two men was obviously complaining rather petulantly about something. Philippe sighed, and turned back to Nadir.

"He doesn't understand why you were willing to assist the managers before, but you now refuse to be of any help," he drawled.

"Did it ever occur to your brother, do you think, that I simply don't like him?" Nadir challenged. Philippe sniggered.

"Yes, well, he doesn't like to think that," he muttered with a small, amused glimmer in his dark blue eyes. "But, quite seriously. Is that the only reason? You don't want to work with him?" he questioned curiously. Nadir sighed.

"I don't want to create problems. I don't want to make myself anymore of an enemy to Erik than I already am, and by looking after Christine in a way that I know he would not object to, I can maintain my own safety," he said promptly. "_That_, monsieur, is more valuable than any money you and your family could give me. I was wrong to interfere before, and so now I'm keeping my distance," he finished. Philippe smiled, and nodded.

"Well then, that's your final word?" he questioned, to which Nadir nodded.

"Yes. Your brother won't find an ally in me this time."

Philippe exchanged a few more words with Raoul, but it was clear that the conversation was over.

"Alright, monsieur. But if you should decide to change your mind... well, you know how to contact us," Philippe declared, rising to his feet, and gesturing for his brother to do so. Raoul looked helplessly to Nadir.

"Please. I must... Christine... she must be – she must to be safe," Raoul pleaded desperately. For a moment, Nadir almost felt a stab of pity.

And then a vision flashed before his eyes of Christine's face when she saw Erik's body crumple to the floor and spasm in a pool of his own blood. The complete horror and disbelief that marred her beautiful face still haunted him to that day.

"Go away, boy. I won't help you," he snapped, not even bothering to stand. Philippe gave him a short nod as he directed his brother out of the apartment.

"If we find out you're hiding something, monsieur," Philippe said, just before stepping into the hall. "Then it's not just protection from this ghost you should be worrying about," he warned, before pulling the door closed, leaving nothing but the slightest fragrance from his cologne, and a sense of distaste in the back of Nadir's throat.

It looked like Erik and Christine had one more enemy they had to contend with.

* * *

"So he's not to be trusted?" Erik questioned his wife with a clear frown on his lips. Christine shrugged as she stirred bolognaise boiling on the stovetop.

"I don't know. I never liked him, he always seemed cruel and angry, but at the same time... calm. It was frightening," she replied simply.

"That's certainly the impression he gave me. Charming, but suspicious," Nadir agreed, setting his wine back on the dining table in Erik and Christine's kitchen. "Almost as if he was lying in wait to pounce the moment I let my guard down," he added wryly.

"I only feel sorry for Ana. Every time I see her I can't help but pity her," Christine sighed, taking the pot of pasta from the stove to the sink, and draining it into a large serving bowl. "I've had dinner with them before. I know how to handle myself, so you don't need to worry," she assured the two men, who were exchanging wary glances.

"Who is Ana? Can we trust _her_?" Erik demanded, his jaw set and firm.

"She's Philippe's wife, and yes, we can trust her. She practically hates Philippe, she only stays because of her children, and if she went back to Germany her father would disown her," she assured them, setting the table as she spoke. "She and I were friends. Well, sort of. Before I went to the castle we would call and talk every now and then, and once, when Philippe was away on business, she brought the children up to Paris and we met each other every day for six weeks," she explained, bringing the pasta and the bolognaise to the table before fetching the bread.

"What kind of husband leaves his wife and children alone for six weeks?" Nadir frowned.

"She was grateful for it. She was seventeen when they married; he's ten years older than her," she explained. Erik stared at his wife pointedly as she took a seat.

"You do realise that I'm probably about twice your age, and _you_ happen to be seventeen as well?" he reminded her dryly. She rolled her eyes.

"It's different. They'd barely met, she had only just finished school, and the moment she did her father forced her to go get married," she explained, beginning to serve out the food. "_And_, she was only just eighteen when she had her first baby. She's been pregnant for most of their marriage. Raoul told me she's expecting her fourth child, she's only twenty-three," she added meaningfully.

"That's disgusting," Erik muttered.

"What, pregnant women or very _young_ pregnant women?" Nadir commented with a laugh.

"It reminds me of the girls who used to get sold off to husbands from as young as nine when I was with the gypsies. A lot of them died in childbirth when they were no more than eleven years old," he practically spat.

"Mm, or the girls back in Iran before they got rid of Sharia law. Not that it changed a lot," Nadir added sadly.

"Children shouldn't have children. It's as simple as that," Erik commented, taking a sip from his wine, and stirring pasta around his fork mindlessly.

"Well, I certainly wouldn't want Ana's life. She would have been the same age as _me_ and about to have a child," she exclaimed, looking slightly disturbed at the reality of that thought.

"His wife isn't of any concern to us. We need to know what they're trying to do," Erik declared. "I think you need to work a bit more at convincing Raoul. Perhaps if he believes you care for him he'll give up this man hunt, or he might tell you what he's planning," he suggested. Christine passed Nadir his plate with a glare to her husband.

"It's very easy for you to say that," she replied coolly, serving up her own plate. Nadir shot Erik a silencing glance, but Erik took little notice.

"I'm not suggesting you two stroll off to the nearest chapel," he retorted. "But they boy is an idiot if he doesn't notice the fact that you can't stand to be around him," he shrugged. She didn't respond, only lowered her cutlery, as if she didn't trust herself to hold any sharp implements.

"Erik..." Nadir muttered warningly.

"You're the one who complains about my safety, Christine. It doesn't seem a great deal to ask," he continued, confused about her silence.

"I kissed Raoul, and I told him I loved him. Is that what you want? For me to kiss him again? Did you want me to sleep with him, just for good measure?" she demanded angrily, her eyes burning with anger. He opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out.

"You – you _kissed_ him?" he exclaimed.

"Yes, I kissed him, because I didn't want him to get suspicious. So don't try to imply that I'm not doing what I can to keep you safe," she practically spat, grabbing her plate and leaving the kitchen without another word, slamming the door that separated them from the living room with a loud _bang_.

"Congratulations. I hope you enjoy celibacy," Nadir drawled wryly, before taking a mouthful of bread.

"Shut up, dog," Erik snapped, stabbing his plate with a butter knife.

"Well what did you expect? She just held hands with him and she didn't care about you enough to bother with anything more?" he replied with a raised brow.

"I'm sorry if I don't like my wife kissing other men, Daroga, but I'm made like that," he spat angrily.

"What would you say if I told you Christine kissed me, and she told me that she loved me?" Nadir challenged curiously.

Erik stared at him darkly.

"Do you really want to try your luck?"

"Perhaps not," Nadir laughed. "But still. She doesn't care for Raoul. She hates him with her whole body, but she knows what she has to do to keep you safe. You don't have to push her about it," he reminded him. Erik rolled his pale eyes.

"In answer to your question, I don't know what I would do. I think that would be even worse than her saying the same to the boy, because I know she doesn't mean it. But you're different," he growled.

"Hmm. How so?" Nadir asked, almost playfully. Erik gave a frustrated sigh.

"Because... she wouldn't lie to you. Do you think I want my wife to love two men? I hate it. And I hate you, too," he snapped. Nadir chuckled.

"Yes, but she loves you more. _Much_ more. I'm barely a single fraction of her heart, while you take up almost all of it," he assured. Erik moodily stabbed his food with his knife.

"Are you..." he stopped, and sighed. "You know she would never choose you over me."

Nadir smiled, and nodded.

"I don't mind. I like being around her, and it's amusing how jealous it makes you. Even if you had never come along, I don't think I would want that life again," he shrugged. "The same way that she lives for you and I'm just a small part of her heart is the way that what I've lost is all that fills me, except for a little bit of her," he explained thoughtfully. Erik nodded slowly.

"Have you spoken to Rookheya?" he questioned finally. Nadir shook his head.

"No. Not since the funeral. I thought she might send divorce papers or something like that, but I think she prefers to be estranged. I still think about her, though," he admitted, with slight bitterness as he stared down at his plate.

"Will you ever..."

"No. I don't think so. Not now, not without Reza. It would be too painful."

Erik nodded. It was clear he was straining against his anger at Christine's confession, but that was also conflicting with his realisation that she had every reason to be angry with him. The two ate in silence, Erik due to his confusion of how to approach the situation, and Nadir only because he found it was very amusing to watch the conflict of emotions on Erik's face.

"I think I have to apologise," Erik said finally, after a good fifteen minutes of silence. Nadir lowered his fork.

"Really? It took you a quarter of an hour to work that out?" he exclaimed blankly. Erik rolled his eyes.

"Shut up, Daroga. I've been thinking," he snapped.

"A very difficult task for you, I'm sure."

"Shut up," he growled, before rising from the chair. He took their empty plates and set them down in the sink, still looking thoughtful. "I'll apologise, just as soon as she apologises for kissing that boy," he decided finally, leaning against the bench.

Nadir groaned.

"I'm not even going to bother. Good luck, and enjoy the divorce," he commented, rising from his chair.

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Go destroy your marriage, I'm sure you'll be fine without Christine," he drawled, stepping into the hall to fetch his coat. "Say goodnight to your wife for me, and tell her I'm sorry it didn't work out between you two," he said finally, waving Erik off as he left the apartment.

"Bastard," Erik muttered beneath his breath. He glanced to the door that separated the lounge room and the kitchen where Christine had disappeared through.

He knew exactly what he _should_ do; he should walk in there and apologise to Christine for pushing her when he had no right. But he was, despite everything, a proud man. He hated admitting when he was wrong. It was a seldom enough occasion, but when it inevitably did come about, he always found apologies a particularly painful business.

He waited for another few minutes, but when it was clear Christine wasn't going to come back into the kitchen, he finally worked up the courage to tentatively pull open the sliding door. The room was dark, but he had no problems with adjusting to the darkness, and he could clearly see her standing outside on the balcony, looking over the city, her plate left untouched on the floor by the door.

"Christine, you stupid girl, you'll catch a cold," he scolded, stepping outside and instantly pulling her back into the apartment. She shrugged his hold off, and flicked on the lights, before going to sit down on the settee. "Christine... you see, I _knew_ this was going to end up like this. If we stayed, things would only get harder for us," he sighed, crossing the room, and seating himself on the edge of the lounge arm.

"Yes, because you were so against us staying in Paris," she drawled, rolling her emerald eyes.

"I asked you if you want to go back to the castle, and you said no," he returned sharply. She pulled her legs up on the settee and leant her chin against her knees.

"Erik, if you thought I wanted to go back to the castle, even if you wanted to stay here, what would you do?" she demanded.

"We would go back."

"So how do you expect me to pull you away from Paris when I know you want to be here, to finish this damn opera?" she snapped bitterly.

"I didn't ask for you to stay, Christine. We can go back whenever you want!" he returned pointedly. "But if we _did_ go back, then what would our lives be like? Constantly looking over our shoulder to make sure that stupid boy isn't wielding another gun at one of us!" he continued, before she could respond.

"There! There it is!" Christine said wildly. "How can I possibly say what I really want when you put it like that?" she demanded incredulously, staring at him with wide, fiery eyes.

"You knew what you were getting into," he snapped. She groaned, and leant forwards, burying her head in her hands.

"Do you understand how hard it is to be around him? To let him fawn over me, knowing that he was the reason for the greatest unhappiness I've ever known?" she questioned, her voice quiet but gravitating with seriousness.

"Then why do you –"

"Because it keeps you _safe_, you idiot!" she returned sharply, before he could even continue. "You insist on running around, playing this stupid game, teasing them; I know you think you're so invincible and 'oh, those silly managers aren't clever enough to get _me_', but you have a _wife_, Erik, and you can't just do those sorts of things, risking yourself like that!" she cried, beating her small fist against his arm harmlessly to enforce her point.

"They _won't_, Christine, they won't catch me," he insisted softly. She shook her head.

"Yes, Erik, they _will_. But even if they didn't, does it really matter? You obviously care more about getting the better of them than you do about me," she muttered bitterly.

"That's not true," he frowned. "You know how much I love you, Christine."

"No, Erik, I don't; because you left me for months, you tricked me and you used me, and now you're putting yourself in danger because you're so damn hell-bent on making everyone else look like an idiot," she snapped, rising to her feet, and making to leave the room.

"You said you wanted to finish the opera!" he objected angrily.

"_Yes_, Erik, I did! But I didn't want you to go sneaking around that theatre, leaving notes and clues so they can find you!" she threw back, turning to him with frustration radiating from her very presence.

"But they never _will_ find me!"

"They already did, Erik! Raoul found us at the castle, and he'll find you again if you keep this up," she swore firmly, her voice shaking as she blinked back tears. "And I am _not_ going to become a widow."

Erik sighed, and glared out at the streets beneath them, digging his hands into his pockets.

"I'll stop letting them see me, but I won't stop the notes," he grumbled finally. Christine narrowed her eyes.

"Are you going to make an effort to stay safe?" she demanded. He scowled, and nodded like a shamed schoolboy. "Thank you," she said quietly, and he nodded once more.

"Come on then, get back inside before you freeze," he grumbled, reaching for her arm and practically tugging her back into the room. "I'm going to be in the music room for a while," he announced, when she was back in the living room.

Despite his briskness, Christine couldn't help but smile softly. She couldn't believe that she and Erik had just settled an argument like normal people.

Perhaps marriage wouldn't be as hard as she had thought.

**A/N: Updating as often as I can, peeps. Only one more week of the semester and then an exam, so I should be able to update regularly pretty soon ^_^**


	39. The Lioness

Comte Philippe de Chagny was not a man who liked to be trifled with. He was a man who disliked any sort of nonsense and finished every task to his own impeccable standards. He went to the best schools, did exceptionally well and studied at various exclusive academies and universities, where he had learned how to handle finances and business and double the remaining de Chagny fortune within the space of five years.

At thirty-two, he was now the head of the family after the passing of his dear father six years ago. He had done the proper thing, left Paris and came home to Marseilles, where he took control of the finances and set himself up in the luxurious de Chagny château so he could keep an eye on his mother. He married a very pretty girl from an illustrious German family, and she was now pregnant with his fourth child – another boy, he hoped. When his baby brother Raoul finished school, he took him under his wing for a year, before sending him to Paris with several investments he needed to take care of.

He remembered Christine, of course. She had spent a summer with them many years ago, and he had not thought much of her then. She was very pretty, and he recalled that she had a lovely singing voice and very expressive green eyes, but she was a child, then. He hadn't seen her for well over a year, when he had taken his wife and children (there were only two then, a boy and a girl, but a second daughter was soon on the way) into Paris for a week or so to see the theatre and the galleries.

She had transformed when he saw her then. She was a gorgeous young woman with a comely figure and a rather sweet smile. He did love his wife, in his own way, but it was difficult not to be attracted to such a charming young creature when his own wife was eight months pregnant and too tired to be of any use. Still, he knew how much his little brother fawned over the girl, and he would not object to calling her his sister.

_Especially now that she is famous and wealthy_, he thought to himself as he straightened his tie and dinner jacket.

"Ana, you'll make us late," he grumbled to his wife as he glanced over his shoulder to see the young woman's reflection in the mirror of the luxurious apartment he kept for them in Paris.

"I'm almost done, Philippe," she assured him, applying a quick layer of lipstick and attempting to rise gracefully from the chair before her vanity, one hand pressed over her seven-month pregnant belly. She looked at him helplessly as she stumbled slightly, but gave a small, sad sigh as she straightened herself. She had learned early not to expect much help from her husband.

"You're the one who insists on leaving the house when you're pregnant," he snapped, as she pulled on her heavy fur coat that dwarfed her small body. She didn't respond as she reached for her splendid diamond necklace, a present to mark the birth of their first son. Philippe was the kind of man who believed that nine months of love and support could be replaced with an expensive jewel after the child had been delivered safely.

"Could you?" she requested softly, as she turned, and held both ends of the necklace. He grumbled as he fastened the clasp, and then checked his appearance once more in the mirror.

"A necklace, earrings and a bracelet. If you keep having children, you'll run out of things for me to buy you," he drawled as she picked up her purse. She blushed.

Ana wished very dearly to reply that she didn't wish to fall pregnant, that she didn't want to bring anymore children into the world who even slightly resembled their father, but there was no point. Philippe never listened.

"Come along then," he muttered, taking his wife's arm and leading her from the bedchamber. "Agnes, make sure the children get to bed early. And do a bit of cleaning up, for goodness' sake," Philippe commanded, barking out an order to the frightened au pair as she read a story to the three young children sitting at her feet in the living room.

"Of course, master Philippe," she squeaked, her fingers turning white as she gripped the storybook. She sent a helpless glance to Ana, who immediately swooped down to her children and bestowed loving kisses on their brows.

"Be good, my angels," she whispered lovingly.

"Yes, yes, come along, Ana, or we'll be late!" he scolded her. His children didn't even attempt to bid their father goodbye. To them, 'papa' was a strange man who every now and then appeared in the nursery and was mean to mama. There was little love in their hearts for their father.

"Yes, Philippe," she replied, her voice gentle as she rose unsteadily to her feet. She took her husband's arm, and blowing kisses to her children, she stepped out of the apartment with him.

They didn't speak on the way to the restaurant, for which Ana was rather thankful. She didn't like speaking to Philippe anymore; he never really had anything nice to say, anyway. Instead she stared out the window as people shuffled through the streets, doing their business. She liked watching them, and sometimes wishing she could just slip into the crowd.

It would be nice, she decided, to just disappear.

"Come on then, we're here," Philippe announced, when the car slowed. He had the decency to open the door for her, and helped her to her feet before he took her arm once more and lead her to the restaurant.

Raoul and Christine were already there when they arrived, and Philippe sent a glance to his wife as if to say that it was her fault they were late. She pasted on a smile and greeted the couple enthusiastically. She liked Christine, and even if Raoul was a bit of a wet fish, to see her old friend would make up for it.

"How have you been? You're having another baby?" Christine questioned excitedly, as Ana immediately sat down beside her. They pulled their chairs away from the men at the table in one of Paris' most fashionable restaurants, and spoke in quiet voices, but as neither Raoul nor Philippe spoke German, they had the freedom to say whatever they wished for.

"Yes, after this I'm going to have the operation. I can't stand being pregnant, and he refuses to use protection," she sighed sadly, rubbing her stomach with slight pain.

"Is it a boy or a girl?" Christine enquired.

"A boy, I think. He wants another boy," she answered, glancing to her husband. "What about you? Were you really kidnapped?" she demanded anxiously. Christine smiled.

"Yes, but it's not as bad as you think. I'll explain later, it's a very long story," she assured her. She could be certain that Ana would not say a word to Philippe. No one hated him more than Ana.

"I'm very excited to hear you sing. We're going to the theatre tomorrow night to see you perform. Are you going to do next season, too?" she enquired curiously. Christine shrugged, and gave a secretive smile.

"Maybe, maybe not. But we're going to start rehearsals for _Lakmé _soon, and the company will start that when _Don Juan Triumphant_ is finished," she explained.

"You look beautiful, by the way. I wish I had a figure like yours," Ana sighed. Christine rolled her emerald eyes. Ana cut a very slim, but very lovely figure when she wasn't pregnant. Unfortunately, she was pregnant most of the time.

"Oh, stop complaining, you always look beautiful," she waved her off. "So how are the children? Are they getting big? I want to see them," she babbled immediately.

"Oh, they're very good. Valentin asked after you when you disappeared, he wanted to go looking for you with Raoul," she smiled.

"And the girls?"

"Well, Georgette has started school now, and Monique is walking. And she can only say a few words, but she's doing really well," she answered excitedly. If there was one thing Ana loved, it was her children.

"I can't wait to see them again."

"Well, if you can escape my brother-in-law you should come over tomorrow. There's so much you need to tell me," Ana insisted meaningfully, glancing to Raoul. "You can't do this, Christine. Please, don't do this to yourself," she said softly, taking her hands.

"I know what I'm doing, Ana. You don't have to worry," she assured the woman. Ana nodded, but gave another wary glance to Raoul. The last thing Ana wanted was for her friend to become another de Chagny wife.

"Alright, but come visit me tomorrow, please?" she begged. Christine smiled, and nodded.

"I'll come in the morning, I have to be at the theatre early for the performance. Will _he_ be there?" she asked, glancing to Philippe, who was speaking with Raoul. The two looked like they were involved in some deep conversation.

"No, he'll be out tomorrow. He's never home, but I'm not complaining," she sighed, leaning back in the chair and rubbing her belly with a sigh just as the waiter appeared.

"So, Christine. You've been through quite the ordeal this past year, I understand," Philippe commented later in the evening, as they were eating their mains.

"I suppose. It depends on how you look at it," Christine answered slowly, considering her words. She was at a loss for how to act around Philippe. He had always frightened her.

"I expect you're relieved that it's finally over, and you can relax soon," he added, his voice cool and deadly serious. She managed a small smile that might have been a grimace.

"Yes, I suppose so," she agreed simply, pushing her pasta around her plate.

"And you live with Nadir Kahn, the foreign man?" he questioned. She nodded.

"Yes. It's difficult to be at Madame Giry's all the time. Nadir respects my need for space and privacy right now," she answered coolly. Philippe's eyes flashed.

"I can imagine it must be difficult for you to overcome your experience, particularly with such a horrible reminder of that madman. Do you know why they chose to run that opera at the theatre?" he demanded, feigning innocence, but Christine knew what he was up to. He wanted to discover if she knew Erik was alive, or if she still thought he was dead.

"Despite all that happened, Erik was a brilliant composer, monsieur, and his music has been played in many theatres," she explained, carefully measuring her words. Ana reached for her hand beneath the table and gave it a comforting squeeze.

"But it's rather strange, don't you think? You are brought to Paris and audition for the same theatre he used to haunt, and then take up the star role of one of his opera's without any real selection process? Very strange coincidence," he commented quietly. Christine blushed.

"I'm not so stupid to think that everything is coincidence, monsieur," she began, her tone crisp and cool. "But he is dead. I _know_ he is dead, because I saw him die, and unless his ghost has come back to haunt the theatre, I believe that he had planned most of this before he died, and I am merely living in a play he wrote for me long ago," she lied, holding eye contact with him. She was an actress, after all, and a good one at that.

"So you don't suspect anything?" he asked dryly. She rolled her eyes.

"I can admit that in some of my darkest hours, I have wondered if perhaps his ghost _is_ back, haunting me. But it cannot be the living Erik, because he was shot by your brother, and I watched him die," she said coolly. Raoul shifted nervously as Ana gasped.

"You _killed_ a man, Raoul?" she exclaimed in disgust, her voice hushed. Raoul's face burned bright red.

"It was self-defence. He tried to kill me," he protested weakly. In her mind, Christine replayed the scene over in her head, but she knew that under no circumstances was Erik going to kill Raoul. He wasn't like that, and she knew it.

"Regardless, there have been a string of very strange incidents recently, and they all seem to revolve around this deceased man. One doesn't know what to think," Philippe said coolly, glancing to Christine. She held his gaze with determination.

There was one more enemy standing between her and Erik being free, she realised. Only this enemy was more powerful than any of the others combined.

* * *

"She's so big now," Christine smiled softly, as she balanced twelve-month old Monique on her hip. Monique gurgled happily with the attention, and stared up at Christine with wide blue eyes.

"Mm. It's hard to keep track of them all," Ana sighed, rubbing her stomach as she settled back comfortably into a large armchair by the fire of her and Philippe's Paris apartment, her two eldest children Valentin and Georgette curled up in front of the television in the next room with the au pair.

"Is he kicking you?" she asked sympathetically, taking a seat beside her friend.

"Yes, he's terrible like that. Or she, I don't know yet," she replied. "Did you want to feel? It's very strange," she laughed. Christine blushed, and shook her head.

"No, that would be so... oh, I don't know!" she exclaimed with a little shudder. Ana giggled.

"I know what you mean, but it's different when you're the one being kicked."

"What does it feel like?" she asked curiously. Ana sighed thoughtfully.

"Well, it's not even like you're being kicked, really. It's very difficult to explain, but it's not how I thought it would be," she explained slowly. "Are you going to have children, then? With Erik?" she asked curiously. Christine shrugged.

She had told Ana everything, of course. Everything except vital details that might reveal Erik's location to Philippe and Raoul, but she trusted Ana with her life. Ana had listened with surprise, but it felt so good to be able to talk to someone about all that had happened over the past year.

"I don't think so. He doesn't like children," she sighed, bobbing her knee as Monique giggled with excitement.

"Well neither does Philippe, and yet he still wants them. He just wants plenty of sons to secure the family business and some daughters to marry off and make connections," she huffed, looking to her two daughters sadly. "It's the girls I fear for the most. When Georgette was born I cried and cried and cried, because I know what will become of her, and I couldn't stand myself, knowing what I had done to her," she sighed. "But Valentin is different. He's not like his father, thank the heavens, he's more like me. But he's strong, so much stronger than I am. He won't be pushed around by Philippe," she explained, with a small smile.

"You should just leave him, Ana. Leave, and never look back!" Christine insisted. Ana laughed, and shook her head.

"No, I can't. Philippe has all my money, Christine, and I can't work; I have three children, and soon I'll have a fourth. No, he's won. There's nothing more I can do," she muttered, giving a pained grimace. "But that doesn't matter. So you don't think you'll ever have children with Erik, then?" she continued, her cheerful tone sounding rather forced. Christine shrugged.

"Maybe. He surprised me a lot, but I don't think a child is something he wants. I can't even imagine him as a father," she sighed, before laughing. "What am I talking about? I can't imagine _myself_ as a mother! Maybe one day, when I'm older, I might consider it, but I don't think Erik would ever want that," she explained simply.

"If you want a child, then stop taking your birth control or something. Men shouldn't decide those things," Ana retorted. Christine rolled her eyes.

"No. We're both careful, but I don't take the pill. And I wouldn't want that, to deceive him."

"Philippe deceived me, _twice_. But Monique had been a mistake on both our parts, and this one came out of nowhere," Ana replied. "I wish I could swap places with you, but I wouldn't wish this hell on anyone," she sighed, passing her hand slowly over her belly. "So, you know they're planning something?" she questioned, glancing back to her friend.

"Yes, but Erik doesn't tell me anything. We're planning on leaving when the production is over, though. I think I'll just tell Raoul the truth and go, and hopefully he won't follow," she shrugged, holding up Monique as she tried to stand up on her lap.

"I think you underestimate him," Ana chuckled.

"Well, we don't want him to come after us again, but what else can we do? I don't want there to be any violence. But if we tell him the truth and he believes me, then we'll be free."

Ana looked plainly at Christine.

"Philippe knows that you know Erik is alive, Christine. I don't think he'll tell Raoul, Raoul is too stupid and stubborn to know what to do with that information. But he knows," she murmured softly.

Christine stared blankly at the space before her.

"I know he does. But why should he care?" she replied simply, pasting another smile on her face. Ana bit her lip.

"Christine... if Philippe knows that you're married to Erik, or if he finds out, then Erik will be a dead man."

"What?" Christine frowned, turning to her friend in disbelief. "No. You and I both know that Philippe would never do anything unless there was something in it for him. He wouldn't kill Erik," she insisted firmly.

"But that's the point. Christine, if Erik dies, you will be a _very_ rich woman, and the one thing Philippe cares about more than power is money!" she explained passionately. "If Erik dies and you marry Raoul, then it would be the easiest thing in the world for Philippe to have that money sitting in his bank account before you two have even finished the vows. How wealthy is Erik?" she questioned with concern.

"I... uh, I don't know, really. But... millions, Ana. And I just inherited all the money from my parent's estate when I married," she answered nervously. "Oh, Lord. I didn't think of it like that! Do you think Philippe would really go after Erik just for the money?" she exclaimed incredulously.

"Of course he would. For a million euro he'd kill a man with his bare hands, but for _millions_... Christine, I think you need to get out of Paris as soon as possible," she hissed, looking around nervously as if Philippe was there, listening to their conversation, even though they spoke in German.

The two jumped when they heard a knock on the door.

"Is it him?" Christine questioned breathlessly, but Ana shook her head.

"No, he wouldn't knock. We're just frightening ourselves," she said, with a small laugh. "Agnes, could you get that?" she called out in French. The au pair hurried to open the door and greet the guest.

"Hello, we haven't met. Do you speak English?" Nadir questioned, stepping into the living room. Christine and Ana gave a sigh of relief.

"A little. My name is Ana de Chagny," she introduced, trying to pull herself up to her feet.

"No, don't trouble yourself. Nadir Kahn," he introduced, giving her a kind smile.

"Thank you. It's difficult to get up when you're pregnant," she smiled with a small laugh.

"I understand. I'm here to pick up Christine," he replied, glancing to the younger girl.

"Good idea, you should leave before Philippe comes back. We don't want him to suspect anything," Ana insisted, turning to her friend.

"I've told Ana everything, Nadir. She thinks Erik and I should leave immediately," Christine murmured nervously. Nadir gave her a comforting smile.

"Erik will look after you, don't worry," he assured her. Christine bit her lip, but finally nodded, and rose to her feet, passing Monique into Ana's arms.

"Be good, and come over when you can, Christine. I'll make sure Philippe isn't around," she insisted sternly. Christine smiled, and nodded.

"Alright, I will. I'll see you soon, Ana," she replied, pressing a quick kiss to either side of her friend's face, before straightening up and following Nadir out of the apartment.

"Are you sure she can be trusted?" Nadir murmured, when they were safely out of the apartment building and walking to his car. Christine nodded.

"Yes, we can trust her. She hates Philippe, Nadir. All she wants is for him to leave her in peace," she insisted.

"You didn't run into Philippe?" he questioned cautiously as they stopped by his car. She shook her head. "Are you certain he knows? I found it immeasurably difficult to understand what he was thinking."

"He knows, but he doesn't know about the marriage. If he did, then it stands to reason that Erik's life will be in danger. If Erik died, I would inherit everything, and if Philippe thinks he could force me to marry Raoul then he could just take the money," she explained hastily. Nadir nodded.

"Well then, he mustn't find out about the marriage. I just hope your friend can keep a secret from her husband," he replied, unlocking the car and ending the discussion.

* * *

"Alors, mademoiselle Giry, you are certain about the information you heard?" Comte Philippe de Chagny questioned, his voice cool and powerful, his eyes cold and piercing as he stared down at the young girl seated behind the desk of Raoul's study.

"Oui, monsieur. They said that Erik and Christine were married," she replied firmly, sending a pretty smile to Raoul, who sat behind the desk with a pained expression on his face. Philippe casually strolled across the room to lean on the wall behind the desk.

"And this box five, you are certain that it has some significance?" he demanded.

"Oui, monsieur. My mother never let me go in there, but before we left the theatre everyday when I was younger and Erik was still in the theatre, she would go in there with supplies or notes, and she would come out with another note," she explained.

"You have been very helpful, mademoiselle," Philippe smiled, stepping forwards and placing a hand on Raoul's shoulder. "Very helpful indeed. You can be sure that you will be reimbursed fully for this information," he said, giving her a small bow that caused her to blush.

"Anything to help, monsieur," she beamed, rising to her feet and bidding the two gentleman goodbye.

When they were alone, Philippe turned to stand by the window overlooking a pretty little park where children played in the snow that covered the grass.

"This is a disaster. He must have hypnotised her again," Raoul said sadly, leaning forwards and running a hand through his sandy blonde hair, willing himself not to cry.

"You're wrong, Raoul," Philippe smirked. "This couldn't be anymore perfect. We will have him, and the girl too."

**A/N: No Erik in this chapter, sadly, but don't worry, he's close by! Things are starting to get a little sinister, which is good (or bad, depends on your outlook), and only one more day til term is over and I've got almost two months of break :D I'm looking forward to THAT, I have to say ^_^**


	40. The Dressing Room

"Happy birthday, Christine."

Christine managed a small smile as she turned to see Raoul standing in the doorway of her dressing room, a bouquet of flowers held in his pale hands.

"Thank you, Raoul. They're lovely," she replied politely, turning back to the seamstress at her feet who was altering her costume for _Don Juan Triumphant_ once more.

"You were wonderful tonight," he commented, almost desperately, stepping into the room.

"You're very kind, Raoul, but I was so distracted by how tight my dress was I don't think I did my best," she replied with an airy laugh.

"Stop complaining. Do you know how many people here would kill to have your body? And all you do is complain about my dresses," the seamstress scoffed, poking Christine with a needle.

"Madame! How dare you?" Raoul barked angrily.

"Raoul, calm down, she's only teasing," Christine laughed. The seamstress rolled her eyes, and Raoul cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Yes, well... back to your work," he grumbled. "Ana and Philippe are here. They're up in box five, we'll go to dinner together when you're done to celebrate your birthday," he announced, stepping further into the room and reaching for her hand. "You never wear our ring," he murmured quietly, causing Christine to blush.

"It's a little too big for me, Raoul, and I worry it might fall off. But I can't wear it during performances, anyway," she explained, the lie coming to her naturally.

"And yet you wear your mother's wedding ring around your neck," he muttered bitterly, reaching for the chain that hung over her bosom, with the engagement ring Erik had given her, and another white gold band to signify their marriage.

"It gives me strength, Raoul," she defended coolly.

"Well then, I'll have your engagement ring tightened and then you can wear it outside of performances," he declared, glancing back to the seamstress. "Are you finished?" he demanded. She rolled her eyes once more.

"Yes. I can make the alterations at home in time for your next performance, Christine," she announced, rising to her feet. Christine slipped behind the dressing screen to change, and then handed the seamstress the dress. She took the garment and her sewing bag, and without a word to Raoul, she left the room.

"You would tell me the truth, wouldn't you, Christine?" Raoul questioned, slowly walking over to the screen. Christine stopped changing when she could feel his breath on the back of her bare neck, her body covered only by the slip and underwear worn beneath the costume she had just removed.

"About what, Raoul?" she asked, unable to understand the stab of fear at the bottom of her stomach. Raoul wouldn't hurt her, would he?

"If... strange things have been happening. If there's anything to suggest... _he_ is back..." he explained softly, reaching up to pass his hand over the crook of her shoulder. She trembled in fear, but not desire.

"But he can't be, Raoul. You shot him. He's gone," she replied, wishing she could sound more sincere when all she wanted to do was push Raoul away and declare her love to Erik.

"I wish I could believe you," he said finally, sliding his hand slowly down the length of her arm. He leant forwards, and pressed a kiss to her shoulder.

_Forgive me, Erik_.

She turned her body into his, and pressed her mouth against Raoul's, imagining a different pair of lips beneath hers. She kissed him passionately and closed her eyes to picture dark hair and icy, blue-grey eyes. She tried to convince herself that the hands that pulled tightly at her shift and slid over her derrière were larger, more weathered and dark, with lengthy fingers that had played the most beautiful songs known to man.

"He's dead, and I'm glad you killed him," she murmured against his mouth. He pushed her back until she was pressed against the wall, and his lips were kissing her mouth and jaw and neck insistently. She could feel his desire against her, but she could taste the desperation in his mouth. She had to make him believe her. "Because... because in my dreams he's still there, every night he haunts me with memories, and sometimes I feel like he's around me. I'm frightened, Raoul," she swore, trying to sound more like a woman consumed by passion than a woman who wanted nothing more than to throw up her entire stomach.

"I'll protect you, Christine. I _will_ keep you safe," he growled against her neck, tugging down on her chemise. She gasped when she heard it tear, and his hands roamed freely over her body. She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes closed tight as he pressed his lips over her chest, her ribs and stomach.

"R – Raoul, please, no, you mustn't," she murmured, wishing it could go away. She wanted it all to go away, to disappear and to be in Erik's arms.

"But I love you, Christine, and we're engaged!" he practically begged, staring up at her with wide, pleading eyes.

"Raoul... not before we marry. It – it is a sin. Please, I want to be pure for you on our wedding night," she lied, biting the inside of her mouth as she spoke. Raoul sighed, and nodded, rising to his feet. He held to her tightly, and pressed soft kissed to her forehead.

"I'm sorry. I got carried away," he murmured.

"I understand, Raoul," she replied, but that wasn't what she wanted to say.

"So... you have nightmares about him?" he asked her carefully. She nodded, trying to formulate a story in her mind.

"Not just in the night. Sometimes..." she practically whispered, looking around her. "Sometimes I can't remember half of my day. I arrive at the theatre and then the next minute it's time to go, and I don't know what has happened for hours," she lied.

Yes, that could work... then Raoul would think that she was completely unconscious of Erik's presence!

"Why haven't you spoken about this before, Christine?" Raoul demanded, stepping back and holding to her shoulders tightly. "He could be drugging you, or hypnotising you! Lord _knows_ what he could be doing!" he cried angrily, shaking her as he spoke.

"W – What? Who is _he_?" she questioned with a frown. She waited for two seconds before she changed her facial expression to complete shock, and hopefully fear. She tried to imagine how her face must have looked when Raoul shot Erik. The complete disbelief and horror. "You mean – you – you mean he's –" she stammered, widening her eyes. Raoul paled.

"No, no that's not what I mean! Of course not, Christine!" he insisted, his eyes searching hers. She managed a sob.

"Is he here? Is he back? But – but you killed him!" she cried, pulling away from him. She forced her body to tremble, hoping he didn't notice how fake her body movements were. "How could he be here? Is he alive? Is he here, now?" she screamed, looking around wildly.

"No, Christine! He's not here, I swear! I – I meant the foreigner! I meant that... _he_ could be drugging you through the day!" he insisted weakly. Christine tried to force her breathing to gradually slow, as if she were slowly calming down. She was pleased to feel tears sliding down her cheeks; tears always made a performance more believable.

"Oh, Raoul," she laughed, clutching to her chest. "Oh, you're so silly. You had me so frightened," she sighed, taking a seat on the chaise and running a hand through her dark hair. Raoul sat down beside her and took her hand.

"I never meant to frighten you, my love," he assured her, a smile overcoming his features. He raised her hands to his mouth, and pressed loving kisses to them. "You must change, I'll leave you alone for a moment to go fetch Ana and Philippe. I'm sorry again, Christine," he said gently, leaning down and pressing one more kiss to her mouth, which she returned as best she could.

She waited till she was sure he was gone before she covered her mouth and started to shake with sobs. She felt completely and totally disgusting; but she knew it was the only way.

"That was very believable," came a ghostly voice from above her. Months ago she would have thought that voice was her angel of music, but now she knew it was someone else entirely.

"Erik, I don't need your jealousy right now, _please_," she wept, still shaking as the tears overcame her. She heard a rustle and the sound of movement from above, and before she knew it, Erik appeared from a sliding panel behind the dressing screen. He strolled over to the side of the chaise, his expression pained.

"I mean it. It was a very good performance. Your timing was impeccable, and it's a good story," he muttered, keeping his eyes focused on the ground.

"Thanks, but I'm not looking for a review of my acting skills right now," she snapped bitterly, wiping her cheeks with a tissue from the coffee table by the chaise.

"Well, it's the only way I can handle it. To remember that it's just an act," he insisted, his tone revealing his hurt.

"Of course it's an act."

"Are you alright?" he asked gently, placing his hand on her shoulder. She was silent for a moment, and then nodded.

"Yes. I suppose," she sighed, glancing to the remains of her chemise. "I was pretending it was you. But it was hard to pretend when he's so different," she sighed sadly.

"You had best change. Don't want to keep them waiting," Erik muttered. She turned to him with a small smile.

"Just think. In a little over a month, all this will be over, and we'll never have to see him again," she said, reaching for his hand. He nodded, and gave a tiny little smile with his head bowed.

"Yes. It'll all be over soon," he sighed. "Christine, I'm sorry you have to do this. This wasn't how I wanted our marriage to start off," he apologised with a sheepish smile. She leant forwards and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.

"We're doing this for our future together. So I don't care," she insisted. He nodded, and returned her kiss.

"Alright, you need to get changed, and make sure Raoul keeps his hands off you," he said sternly, rising to his feet. "Oh, and happy birthday. Try to save some energy so we can celebrate tonight," he added, with a teasing grin as he headed towards the mirror.

"I thought we already celebrated this morning?" she challenged with a raised brow. He chuckled.

"That was nothing. I was just enjoying the fact that now sleeping with you is no longer illegal," he smirked. She rolled her eyes.

"You idiot," she laughed. He nodded.

"Of course. I love you. See you tonight," he said, before opening the mirror and slipping through into the tunnel. She smiled softly before she recalled that she needed to change, and jumped back up to fetch her dress for dinner.

* * *

"Philippe! I must talk to you," Raoul hissed to his brother the moment he returned to the car from dropping Christine off at Madame Giry's.

"Well you've had all evening," Philippe commented with a raised brow, as his brother climbed into the backseat of the car.

"Not here. In private," he insisted, hazarding a glance to Ana, who was busy watching cars race past them with their headlights blaring.

"Fine then. We can discuss it in my study when we get back to my apartment," Philippe sighed boredly. His brother no longer had much to do with his plans for the 'Phantom' problem. No, Raoul was very oblivious to everything around him. But it was no coincidence that they watched the performance in box five.

Raoul was impatient on the drive back to Philippe's apartment. Ana attempted some conversation, but it was clear that Raoul was too focused on his newfound information to respond. He leapt out of the car when they finally arrived at their destination, and dashed immediately to Philippe's study when they stepped into the apartment.

He began impatiently pacing the room, waiting for Philippe to finish whatever he was doing and join him in the study. After five minutes of waiting he was quite on edge, but his brother finally walked into the room just as Raoul was about to storm out in search for him.

"Ana is bathing the children, so we can be sure she won't be listening," he said calmly, taking a seat behind his desk. "So, what is it that you've discovered?" he demanded with a raised brow.

"Christine and I were... well... _speaking_ in her dressing room," he began, shooting a meaningful glance to his brother, who rolled his eyes with a small, amused smile.

"I already knew that. You have lipstick on your face," he drawled. Raoul wiped his mouth, only making the lipstick smudge further, but couldn't care less about his appearance at that moment.

"Well, I asked her if she thought Erik was alive, and she got very upset, she was genuinely horrified at the thought. She started to cry, she was almost hysterical," he explained quickly. Philippe nodded with a slight tilt of his head. "But she said that she still has nightmares about him, and sometimes, whole days can pass and she doesn't have a clue about what happens. She can walk into the theatre in the morning and the next moment she's leaving in the afternoon, but she can't remember what happened in between," he said, his voice hushed and serious.

Philippe raised a brow. Raoul could tell he was thinking.

"It's a possibility," he decided finally, after a short silence.

"What?"

"Nothing, don't worry. Did she say anything else?" he demanded. Raoul shrugged.

"Just that she was frightened."

"Alright. Well, I'll think about it, but for now, you need to continue searching the archives. No matter what he's doing to Christine, he's at that theatre, and we need to find some way to flood him out," he decided tiredly.

"Is that all?"

"What more did you want, Raoul?" he drawled with a raised brow. "This doesn't change a great deal. It just means that it's questionable if she's aware of what's really going on. That doesn't mean we should change our plan," he practically snapped. Raoul scowled, but nodded.

"But it _does_ mean she hasn't betrayed me," he insisted firmly. Philippe sighed.

"Believe whatever you want, Raoul. Now go, I have work to do," he commanded.

Raoul left without any objection as Philippe thought over his brother's words.

He knew that Christine was a wonderful actress, but was she lying? What interest did she have in protecting Erik? He kidnapped her, after all.

But it didn't matter. She was married to this Phantom, and whether or not she was aware of her marriage to him didn't matter, because she would still inherit everything.

And then he would take everything. That was how he worked.

* * *

Erik couldn't deny that he was eaten up in guilt when he watched that fop run his milky hands all over Christine's body. He knew why she was doing it; she was trying to protect him. She was trying to make sure that Raoul believed her when she said she loved him so he would stop his ridiculous manhunt.

But Erik was starting to come to the realisation that no mutter how well Christine acted, she couldn't protect him with false kisses and pretty words. It was time he started to seriously consider their escape.

When he left her dressing room, he didn't head back to their apartment. He slipped into the first passageway leading off from that tunnel, and made his way up into the walls of the stage and audience. By the time he got to box five it was empty, but he had been there throughout the performance, not watching the opera, but watching the couple.

The young woman was a surprise. He had expected her to be cold or cruel, not such a tiny, weak little thing. She was very pretty, with lovely gold hair and big blue eyes, but her small frame was made ridiculous by the large bump that held her unborn child. He felt sorry for her when he saw the Comte.

It was the first time he had seen the man. He was much more intimidating than his brother; broader of chest and taller of stature, and he had much more of a presence to him than Raoul. But it was an unpleasant presence. He instantly struck Erik as the kind of man he wanted to avoid, and the fact that he was sitting in _his_ box, which was usually left unsold each performance, made him feel rather suspicious.

His suspicions were confirmed when he noticed that after the performance, while his wife was eagerly clapping for the performance, the Comte had risen to his feet and was strolling around the box, inspecting the walls and occasionally kicking the panels with his expensive boots. Erik pressed his hand against the last panel as the Comte kicked it, to muffle the hollow sound he would have heard otherwise. Content that each panel was the same, the man stepped away and back to his wife, still glancing around the walls and ventilation shafts with a small frown.

"Come, Ana. We should leave soon, we don't want to catch the traffic," the Comte murmured. Erik almost stepped back in surprise. He hadn't expected such a gentle, musical voice with a tone of velvet to come from such a broad and intimidating man. For a moment he felt a stab of envy – the only other voice he knew with that quality was his own.

The moment the couple stepped outside of the box Erik was off to Christine's dressing room, where he witnessed Raoul accosting his wife. Erik now followed the path back to the box as cleaners shuffled through the isles and stagehands packed up the props.

Erik glanced through the box with a slight frown as he recalled the suspicious Comte. How did he know about box five? He supposed those stupid managers had told him, but they never used box five.

Erik stopped suddenly when he was about to leave the box.

There was a small, folded piece of cigarette paper sitting on one of the chairs. He stepped towards it with hesitation, and slowly picked it up, unfolding it with growing concern.

He laughed. Genuinely _laughed_. Because despite the dire situation, it was actually quite funny. It meant at least that this Comte was just as arrogant as his brother, and arrogance was a fault Erik liked in his enemies.

'_I call your bluff. The game is on._'

Erik was careful with his response. He waited until the theatre was completely and totally empty before he slipped silently through to the grand doors that opened from the entrance hall into the theatre itself. Taking a dagger used as a prop in _Faust_ and hoping that his enemy understood the symbolism, he used it to secure his response to the doors.

The cleaners were the first ones to find it in the morning, and by the time the managers finally arrived with Philippe and Raoul in tow, the entire cast of the theatre had gathered around the doors and were whispering in fear at the sight of the Phantom's words.

Philippe coloured slightly when he saw the response.

"What on earth does that mean?" Raoul questioned with a frown.

Philippe didn't bother to explain the etymology of the phrase. His mind was racing.

It was no longer just for the money or to protect his brother from scandal; no, this was a game, and the Phantom had just written the stakes on the door of the theatre for all to see.

'_Devil take the hindmost_.'

**A/N: BUM DUM DAAAAAAAA!**

**I really love Philippe, I have to say. Not because he's a good person, but because his character is so fun. Anyway, short chappie, sorry bout that. But it gets interesting soon!**

**Finally, term is finished. Still have an English exam to do in about two weeks, but that shouldn't be too difficult. In answer to enquiry, I think I did okay on my mythology exam, but I'm not too confident about French. I only learnt the language to read French books and reading doesn't count for my French course, so I'm dropping it to pick up a history unit. **

**Anyway, this might seem like a random question, but I'm really getting into David Bowie right now and I'm wondering if there are any particular songs people could recommend? I love everything from **_**Labyrinth **_**and I know a few others, but are there any awesomely amazing songs I should have a listen to? **

**I told you, random. But why not ask, right?**


	41. The Punjab Lasso

As Raoul, Philippe and the managers at the opera made plans to flood the Phantom's underground lair, Erik made plans to leave the city with Christine the moment the curtains fell after the gala.

The entire theatre was buzzing with gossip about the mysterious message that had been pinned on the doors to the theatre with a dagger from _Faust_. Some people speculated that it was perhaps a new opera that had just been announced by the mysterious composer now that _Don Juan Triumphant_ was almost finished, whereas some thought that the Phantom was declaring war on the managers. Very few people understood the true meaning of the message.

"The logic is that there will be some sort of final confrontation or something. I _know_ those idiots are planning something, but I don't know what," Erik growled fiercely as he paced around his kitchen, Nadir sitting at the table with a cup of coffee in his hand.

"Well then, we should at least review what we know they know," Nadir shrugged.

"Well, they know I'm alive," Erik huffed, turning sharply and crossing the length of the kitchen again before repeating his movements.

"And we're quite sure that Philippe knows that Christine knows your alive," he added.

"But we're not certain."

"But it's likely."

"Alright, it's possible. What else?" he demanded.

"And we know that they know where your lair is," Nadir added.

"Not exactly, but they have a vague idea about where it is. Very different."

"They know that you have feelings for Christine. Or at least that she's very important to you," he continued. Erik nodded.

"The biggest understatement you've ever made, but point taken. So they'll probably go for her to get me. She might end up being bait," he murmured thoughtfully.

"Which means we have to keep an eye on her at all times," Nadir nodded. "And they also know that I know something, and they probably have their suspicions about Madame Giry," he continued, as Erik paced quickly.

"They think that Christine occasionally forgets everything that happens throughout the day, which we might be able to use," he threw in.

"Why do I feel like I should make a list?" Nadir drawled.

"Shut up, Daroga. Now, they know where the castle is," Erik added.

"Yes, but that's secure. You have that all but under guard."

"Oh, no, it is under guard now. But still, they know where it is, so until we're certain they won't come after us, we won't go there."

"So just leaving together isn't an option anymore? This has to be a battle plan?" Nadir questioned with some irritation. Erik sighed and ran a hand through his dark hair.

"Well, if what that de Chagny girl says is true, and the Comte would kill for my fortune, then no, we can't run off into the sunset and expect that to be the end of it," he snapped.

"Erik, if you keep Christine in danger for any longer I'll just take her back to Iran and we can wait this out," Nadir returned with exasperation. They were all feeling the pressure. There was now only two weeks before the final night of the production, and the gala to mark the end of _Don Juan Triumphant_ would follow a few days later, and no one really had a plan about what to do.

"That's the last resort, Daroga. But if I need to send her away, I will," Erik replied shortly.

"Oh, thank you for informing me," came a drawling voice from the doorway. Christine stepped into the kitchen, bundled up with a large jumper and scarf to fight off the cold weather outside in Paris. She glared at Erik as she put the groceries away, her cheeks pink from the snow outside.

"You'll like it there. It's warmer," Nadir commented lightly, earning a small sigh from her.

"Are you doing your 'let's review everything and argue' routine again? Because it's getting old," she said tiredly.

"Terribly sorry if I'm trying to work out a way for us to walk away from this without being shot at again," Erik drawled sarcastically.

"Well why don't you leave another cryptic note for everyone to see? Because that's going to make things better," she threw back.

"It was a _response_ to a cryptic note."

"Well congratulations, you've achieved dramatic mystery. What more could we need?" she questioned dryly.

Nadir sighed and buried his head in his hands. It seemed as if every time he came to Erik and Christine's apartment they were barking at each other. Ever since Christine had seen that note along with everyone else at the theatre, they were constantly arguing about the next step to take.

"Can we stop the hostility? Please. This isn't helping," Nadir snapped. Both Christine and Erik sent him an angry glare. "We need something to get us out of their power. At the moment, they're the ones who have the upper hand, and it seems like the most obvious thing they could be planning is to get rid of Erik for good. And considering their sudden interest in blueprints and plans of the building, it's probably going to be with his lair," he stated factually.

"So don't go in it, simple," Christine snapped. Erik sighed, and leant against the bench, rubbing his forehead.

"I think... I need to kidnap you again," he murmured finally.

Both Christine and Nadir looked to him in surprise.

"If we staged a kidnapping and I issued some sort of ransom to the theatre – our protection or something of the like, then they couldn't use you as bait to lure me into the theatre for whatever they're planning," he began slowly, thinking out his words.

"They wouldn't believe it," Nadir sighed.

"Perhaps if we kidnapped Philippe's wife," Erik shrugged.

"God. What possible outcome can we even achieve from this?" Christine questioned in a sudden fit of anger, glaring at the two of them. "How can this end well? Unless they know the truth, that I don't _want_ to come back, there's no point in kidnapping anyone, because they'll just come after us!" she cried sharply. "We should never have deceived them; this has been going on for far too long! I can't take this anymore!" she snapped, throwing the last of the groceries at the kitchen bench before she stormed off to the bedroom that she and Erik shared.

"Is she alright?" Nadir questioned carefully as his friend buried his head in his hands.

"Of course she isn't. This Paris winter is making her ill and she's just angry because of that. And she thinks she's getting fat, too, so obviously it's my fault," he drawled bitterly.

"She thinks she's overweight?" Nadir asked in surprise. Erik rolled his eyes.

"Don't even bother. She's stopped listening to reason," he sighed. Nadir stared at him curiously for a moment.

"So... do you have any idea why she's been ill?" he asked casually, watching for Erik's reaction. He shrugged.

"I think she's just been pushing herself too hard and her body can't take it."

"That's it? You think it's just stress?" he probed. Erik glanced up in suspicion.

"Well what do you think it is?" he demanded. Nadir rolled his eyes.

"Nothing. Don't worry," he muttered. Erik scoffed, and let the issue go. He obviously wasn't in any mood to discuss Christine's tantrums at that time, and both Nadir and Madame Giry had sworn to each other the moment they were certain about the cause of Christine's illness that they would let her and Erik find out for themselves.

Only, they hadn't expected the two to be so dense about it.

"She has a point, though. There aren't a lot of outcomes that would mean we could walk away from this without constantly having to look over our shoulders," Erik sighed after a long silence.

"Maybe she's right. You just need to tell them the truth," Nadir shrugged. "But in a way that ends it. Final and absolute, not a doubt in their minds," he continued.

A strange look passed over Erik's face. Nadir had seen it before, and what usually followed was some sort of new invention or the answer to a puzzle that had been bothering him. It was an expression that took years for one to notice, because it seemed completely blank, and yet there was such focus in his eyes. He was silent as he watched the idea form in Erik's head, before he sat up suddenly.

"The gala. That's what we've been forgetting, the gala," he practically breathed. "I think an announcement will be in order. A very public announcement for all of Paris," he murmured, rising to his feet.

"Erik, wait! What do you have up your sleeve?" Nadir demanded. Erik stopped his march out of the kitchen, and turned back to his old friend.

"Magic," he smirked, before he disappeared into his study.

Nadir sat silently for a moment, contemplating whether or not he should go to speak to Christine. Eventually he decided that what she probably needed was some time alone, and he left the apartment without saying goodbye to either of them.

He had no idea what Erik was planning, but he certainly didn't like the sounds of it.

* * *

"Your name, monsieur?" Philippe demanded, speaking before either André or Firmin had a chance to open their mouths.

"Joseph Bouquet, monsieur Comte. I'm a stagehand," the man informed him with a brief nod, glancing nervously around his surroundings. It was a strange thing for a simple stagehand to be standing in the study of one of the managers for the opera house where he worked, and he was quite ill at ease to be surrounded by such luxury.

"And how long have you been working at the theatre?" Philippe questioned briskly.

"Twenty years, monsieur," he answered dutifully. "Sorry, monsieur Comte, but is this about that ballet girl? Because I never touched her, I swear. She's lying," he insisted hastily, casting a nervous glance to the managers with his beady black eyes.

"No, this has nothing to do with your exploits," André drawled.

"But I think the 'ballet girl' would probably have something to say about your claim," Firmin muttered beneath his breath.

"So you would be familiar with this Phantom, then, monsieur?" Philippe questioned with a raised brow.

"Familiar? I've seen him. I was the first one to see him," Bouquet insisted proudly. Both Philippe's brows rose in surprise.

"Oh, really? And when was this?" he asked curiously.

"Well, I knew the devil before he went underground, of course. We were stagehands together, shared a dorm. He was always very strange," he shrugged. Philippe sat himself down on the edge of André's desk, and stared at the man standing before him with intense curiosity.

"He was a stagehand," Philippe muttered blankly, but his surprise was plain.

"Ouais, but it's not well known. I got into a spot of trouble when I mentioned it last," he answered somewhat awkwardly.

"What kind of trouble?" Firmin interjected curiously.

"This kind," he replied, tugging off his somewhat grubby neck scarf to reveal a thick white line around his neck that shone smoother than the rest of his red skin.

"Is that –"

"It's called a Punjab lasso. This scar is fifteen years old," he explained, looking somewhat uncomfortable to be telling the story so many years later. "Hurt a bit. Hung me up from a rafter until I almost died, then said in his sickly sweet voice; '_Joseph Bouquet would do better to hold his tongue'_, I'll never forget that," he muttered with a slight shudder at the memory.

"So... what is he like, then?" Philippe asked with a small smirk. The managers and Bouquet stared at him in surprise. "He interests me, this Phantom character. I'm curious," he shrugged.

"Uhh... well he was a younger lad when I first knew him, maybe 'bout eighteen or so. A gypsy boy," Bouquet began tentatively. "Always wore black, had his hair long, and then the mask, but his hair was so long you barely noticed it. He kept to himself, never spoke unless he had to, and he'd disappear for days on end," he explained thoughtfully, recalling the memories. "We would have let him go; only we couldn't find him. One day he just disappeared, and a few months later we started getting notes. Didn't realise who he was for a few years until I ran into him in the wings," he continued, with growing discomfort.

"You're free to say what you wish here, monsieur. He had no hold over you here," Philippe assured him politely. Bouquet gave a nervous laugh.

"No, monsieur. You've got it wrong. Nowhere is safe from the Phantom."

"Well, Bouquet, we didn't bring you here to tell us about this Phantom, however interesting this information is. We were a bit more curious about his so called 'lair'," Philippe announced, beginning to stroll the room in his empowering manner.

"That'd be the whole theatre, monsieur."

"Very amusing, Bouquet, but I haven't time for this. Please, tell us what you know," the Comte snapped. Bouquet's black eyes narrowed slightly and his lips twitched.

"I'm not joking, monsieur. He has passages all through the opera house. There isn't a room in the place he couldn't get into without you even seeing him," he explained.

"Do you know any of the entrances?" he frowned.

"It's worth more than my life to tell you," Bouquet sniffed. "I have an idea about one, but you don't want to go down there. He has... security," he murmured darkly.

"Security? What kind of security?" André demanded suddenly.

"Traps, monsieur. Nowhere is safe in the Phantom's domain. You would die before you were even close," he answered. "A few years back an inspector turned up, just before you two messieurs took charge," he began, glancing to André and Firmin. "He needed to check the structure, so he went down beneath the stage, further than any of us dare to go. He came back in shock, trembling, he was. Said he saw a head of fire, no body, just flames, and its mouth opened wide to swallow him whole before he got away," he recounted. The two managers started to look very uncomfortable, while Philippe only smirked.

"And the result of this inspection?"

"Ah. Well, you see, that's how we _know_ the Phantom is real, and he's everywhere," Bouquet said with slight discomfort, glancing around the room as if Erik could hear him even then. "I was in the office when we heard him. The inspector was raving on to the old manager about closing down the place, and suddenly... we heard him. We all heard him. Big booming voice, frightened us all out of our wits," he continued, giving a slight shudder at the memory. "He said there was nothing wrong with the structure of the theatre, and that if the inspector knew what was good for him, he would leave, and never come back. He never did, and the theatre is still open," he finished pointedly, glancing between the men. "He doesn't play nice, monsieur Comte. I wouldn't challenge him."

"I already have, monsieur Bouquet, so there's no point in warning me," Philippe replied boredly, inspecting his nails with particular interest. "This entrance. Where do you think it could be?" he questioned finally, after sitting in silence for a good minute to have Bouquet squirming.

"Monsieur, if I told you, he would kill me. He knows that I know where it is, or at least that I think where one is. It's not worth my life," he insisted firmly. Philippe raised a brow.

"Is it worth your job?"

Bouquet cursed beneath his breath, and scowled at the illustrious man before him.

"There's a way that most people know about. It's more dangerous than any others, but if I tell you, he won't know it was me. You can see for yourselves what he's like," he snapped, crossing his arms against his chest. Philippe gave a faint smile.

"And I assume that this is the same entrance the inspector took?" he asked vaguely. Bouquet nodded.

"The trapdoors onstage, you have to go down those first. We store things under there sometimes, but there's a staircase leading to more storage beneath that chamber. The inspector was the last man to go down there and come back alive. That's your only way in," he informed him, his voice clipped.

"And you won't tell us of this other entrance?" André asked hopefully. He obviously didn't like the sound of Bouquet's warnings.

"Would this be box five that you're thinking of?" Philippe questioned suddenly. Bouquet looked at him in surprise.

"You know about box five?" he demanded incredulously. Philippe smirked.

"Oui. That's how I sent my challenge to this 'Phantom'. But I didn't find anything that suggested a secret passage or a hidden door," he assured him. Bouquet gave a relieved sigh.

"Well, you weren't looking hard enough, because we've seen him in there. That's _his_ box, monsieur."

"Alright, Bouquet. Thank you very much," the Comte said finally, folding his hands behind his back. "You will receive a little extra with your next pay check for your troubles. Just answer me one more question, if you please," he requested, his voice gentle and musical. Bouquet nodded warily. "In your opinion, do you think the Phantom has any sort of weakness? Anything at all?" he asked, the question seeming casual, but all assembled knew it was loaded with meaning.

"Well, not meaning to speak out of turn, monsieur, your brother being the Vicomte and all..." Bouquet began carefully.

"Oh, Raoul is of no consequence. Please, speak freely."

"Well... the way I see it, monsieur, Erik must like this Daaé girl quite a lot. She's the star of his masterpiece, isn't she? And we all know he kidnapped her a year ago, so... I can't help but think..." he trailed off.

"And do you think that this Phantom, this 'Erik', is the kind of man to fall in love with a young soprano?" Philippe asked curiously. Bouquet looked thoughtful for a moment.

"I would say, monsieur, that he's the kind to fall into obsession. They're different."

Philippe smiled.

"Thank you, monsieur Bouquet. You may leave," he replied, nodding towards the door. Bouquet shot all assembled a look of relief, and hastened out of the room.

"Well, he wasn't a lot of use, but I didn't know he used to be a stagehand," Firmin commented, casting a nervous glance up to Philippe, who now stood by the window and was lighting himself a cigarette.

"Monsieur Comte? Are you satisfied with this information?" André hazarded. Philippe turned slowly, slipping his lighter back into his pocket.

"Messieurs, I am merely trying to understand why you are so incompetent when it comes to cooperating with my brother's enquiries," he replied, his voice still soft and musical as always, but there was a hint of anger in it that sent chills down the managers' spines.

"Pardon?"

"You knew about box five, and that you can take a simple staircase down into Erik's lair," he replied coolly. André and Firmin exchanged nervous glances.

"You mustn't call him that, monsieur," Firmin muttered. Philippe scoffed.

"He's a _man_, for goodness sake," he snapped. "He is a man made of flesh and blood and pride and weaknesses, just like any man. Somewhere down this God-forsaken path you seem to have forgotten that," he said sharply, glaring at the managers, who looked guiltily between themselves. "Now. You haven't denied my observation. Please explain why you didn't think it necessary to inform Raoul or myself."

"Well..." André began slowly, fidgeting nervously in his chair. "You see, we didn't think box five was an entrance. But that's where we leave his salary," he explained.

"His _salary_?"

"Monsieur, believe me. If we refuse to leave a percentage of our profits in box five at the end of each week, he will take it from us three-fold, either by ruining a performance so the audience demand a refund, or by simply stealing it from the takings," André continued. Firmin was scowling at his hands, folded atop the desk.

"We certainly don't like paying him, but to his credit, he almost doubles profits," he admitted. "And we've seen the accounts from his first occupancy of the theatre. At least he no longer demands a whole vacant box to himself every evening, not to mention his commission percentage hasn't increased, even though it's not as crippling now as it was back then," he shrugged with slight bitterness.

"And what services does he provide in return?" Philippe requested curiously. The two managers exchanged glances.

"Well... There's his operas, for one," André commented, to which Firmin began to nod firmly.

"Very popular, and they've all been a success in one country or another. We produced one of his earlier works last year, but this is the first original one we've been here for," he explained. "And then we sell them to other theatres. He takes every last cent of the profits for that, but we still pull in a tidy sum for the publishing rights. We recently sold _Don Juan Triumphant_ to England, Spain, Singapore and America. We're negotiating a deal with Germany and Australia, and it gives _us_ good publicity," he added thoughtfully.

"And he practically directs each production we do, and they always turn out well, too," André pointed out.

"And there's a certain amount of upkeep that he managers, whatever he doesn't trust the stagehands with," Firmin threw in.

"Not to mention his name itself. It keeps people in order, something to fear."

"So he's not _useless_," André concluded, turning back to Philippe, who had now returned to strolling casually around the room, occasionally giving a puff of smoke.

"I certainly wouldn't say that, messieurs. So there _is_ an entrance into the lair, which you conveniently forgot to mention to my brother?" he challenged with a raised brow.

"I doubt anyone could enter from there without being killed. I don't think it's the entrance we're looking for, Comte," Firmin assured.

"Yes, of course. Now, I must leave, I have things to do," Philippe waved them off.

He put out his cigarette in the ashtray at the edge of the desk, and without another word, he left the office, his brow furrowed slightly in thought.

* * *

While his brother was busy consulting the managers and pondering the new information he had received from Joseph Bouquet, Raoul de Chagny was strolling the Parisian streets with Christine on his arm and a smile on his lips.

"Where would you like to go, Christine, when all this is done?" Raoul questioned his partner thoughtfully while they passed shop windows on their path through l'Avenue des Champs-Élysées, the pathways damp with melting snow as the bitter winter began to soften.

"Mm? Oh, I don't know, anywhere," Christine shrugged, tearing her eyes away from the beautiful display in the Disney Store window.

"Well that's not very helpful," Raoul laughed, entwining his fingers within hers as he took her hand. "Be serious, Christine. We can go anywhere, I think a holiday is just what we need," he insisted. She sighed, her eyes roaming over the people and the faces and the shops and lights and sounds of the avenues and roads, but never meeting his.

"Perhaps," was all she replied. She looked rather out of sorts, Raoul couldn't help but notice, and almost... _restless_ with the way she moved and spoke and glanced to and from.

"You know, I think we should go to Switzerland. Perhaps visit your old town, spend a little time travelling, and then we can go down to Marseilles to see mother. She misses you, I'm sure," he suggested. She nodded vaguely. "And that way, we can have the wedding there, and you can return to Paris a married woman," he added.

Christine looked to him in surprise.

"The... wedding?" she exclaimed. He smiled, and nodded.

"Yes. Well, we've been engaged for a few months now, and you're wearing my ring, so we should start to plan the wedding," he explained. The way he spoke made it sound perfectly logical and reasonable that a wedding should be expected. "I think Marseilles would be a perfect place for a wedding. What do you think about May? I would prefer April, but I think that's just too soon for us to plan it properly. We have so much we need to organise," he commented.

"Mm, yes, of course," she murmured.

"So, May then? Or will you need more time to find yourself a wedding dress?" he questioned teasingly. She managed a small smile.

"No, that's fine. Whatever you say, Raoul," she assured him, turning her head back to the boutique windows.

"Wonderful! Well then, I'll call mother and have her make a booking for May, and we'll see what dates we can get," he decided with a broad smile. "Christine, we'll be so happy when we're married. All of our troubles here will simply disappear."

Christine's smile didn't seem to agree with his statement, but he accepted it as a positive reaction all the same. He was confident that by securing a date for their union, Christine would be comforted by the reality and the security that their marriage would provide. Now that Philippe was for the most part, taking care of the whole 'Erik' issue, he was free to enjoy his fiancée's company at his leisure, and he tried not to concern himself with the thought of the masked madman that threatened their relationship.

He knew that she couldn't be married to the monster, at least not consciously. He didn't care what Philippe thought, Philippe didn't know Christine. Christine would never do that to him, she would never be so cruel. And how could she possibly have feelings for a man who kidnapped her in the dead of night and stole her away to a hidden castle for five months?

No, she would never willingly unite herself with that creature. But all the same, the sooner their union was official the better, he couldn't help but think.

**A/N: So, my dearies, next chapter is the big bum dum DAAAAAAA moment (well, the biggest so far, I think), and then we start to hit the home run. Well, sort of. I think there will be about forty-nine chapters (you would think this was the biggest fic I've ever written, but strangely, it's not), and I might add one more just for an even number :D **


	42. The Last of Don Juan

Christine was nervous.

She couldn't understand why she felt nervous, after all, she had performed _Don Juan Triumphant_ more times than she could even count over the past few months, and this was just one more show.

Only, it wasn't. It was the _last_ show, and somehow, that struck fear into her very heart, and she was practically trembling with anxiety.

She was afraid, on one hand, that Erik would appear and get himself shot. She loved the man to death, but he had a tendency to be dramatic; and that tendency could have him killed if he wasn't careful. And he had every reason to be careful; because the entire theatre was filled with the _gendarme_, armed police waiting to leap into action with the slightest hint of danger. She scampered through the wings to the stage, and peered through a slight gap in the curtains to watch the beautifully dressed men and women of Paris take their seats with elegance and grace, while behind stage people hurried and scampered about in the last minute rush to have everything ready for the final performance.

She stepped away from the curtain and took a deep breath. She needed to relax, or her final performance would be remembered only for her frightened expression as she scanned the audience.

Deciding she had best head back to her dressing room to prepare, Christine made to leave the stage before she felt a hand on her shoulder, and wheeled around quickly. Before she knew what was happening she was being pulled into the curtains, and a hand covered her mouth before she could cry out.

"Don't fret, it's just me," came Erik's soft and calming voice. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest; somehow, his revelation didn't help her anxiety much.

"What are you doing here? It's too dangerous," she hissed. She heard him chuckle, but when they were hidden within the folds of the heavy black curtains, she couldn't see a thing.

"Don't worry, I'll be fine. Are you nervous?" he asked, and she could hear the comforting smile in his voice that he gave when she was struck with fear or anxiety.

"A little, but I think it's the police. Erik, please, just go home," she begged insistently. He chuckled.

"Why would I? Your final performance, I have to make sure you do it right," he teased. She sighed against his shoulder. His presence was both comforting and concerning.

"Promise me you don't have anything planned for tonight?" she begged quietly. He wrapped an arm around her waist and gently pressed a kiss to her brow.

"No, not tonight. I'm just going to watch tonight, and perhaps listen to a conversation or two. It's incredible what these idiots let slip during the opera," he muttered.

"Stay out of sight. They're expecting you to do something tonight, so please, _please_ disappoint them," she pleaded. She could sense, rather than see him smile.

"I have no intentions of us taking our leave tonight, Christine. We'll wait for the gala, and then we'll go."

"But what about –"

"I'm taking care of everything. You don't need to worry, just sing, and I'll look after the rest," he insisted gently.

"If you get yourself caught or shot tonight, I'll never forgive you," she swore. He chuckled.

"I'll try my best, angel. Now stop stressing, and go get ready. I'll be watching," he instructed. She sighed, and then finally nodded. They shared a short kiss before she clumsily navigated her way out of the curtain and headed for her dressing room.

She just hoped that Erik was telling the truth, and he didn't really have anything up his sleeve for that evening.

* * *

Nadir knew something was wrong the moment he heard the scream.

He had seen _Don Juan Triumphant_ several times before, on the opening night, and then once or twice over the past few months, usually to keep an eye on Christine and Erik. So he knew the final scene reasonably well, and he knew that when Aminta leapt into the river and her death with Don Juan at the end of the opera, there was no scream. People who were ending their own lives didn't scream.

So when Christine's cry echoed around the theatre, his first instinct was that something had gone very wrong indeed.

He leapt from his chair immediately, causing some alarm to the couple sitting next to him, but his first instinct was to get to Christine. She couldn't be hurt, she just couldn't. The heavy stage curtains closed quickly, and several of the officers moved to the side doors with haste. He followed them as quickly as he could, trying to control his racing heart.

"What on earth happened?" he demanded when he saw Madame Giry in the foyer, her face white.

"I don't know! She's not supposed to scream!" she cried, grabbing his sleeve and tugging him through one of the side doors that led to the wings, right behind the four or five policeman whom they had followed out of the audience.

Backstage was a whirlwind of stagehands, ballet dancers and chorus singers scrambling around in haste, their voices raised as orders and questions were barked back and forth.

"Meg! Meg, what has happened?" Madame Giry demanded as she and Nadir pushed their way through the crowd to see a head of bright blonde curls appear in the sea of anxious faces.

"Christine fell! She jumped off the bridge onto the crash mat, but I think someone must have left the trapdoor beneath it unlocked, she just disappeared!" the girl explained hurriedly.

"He said he had nothing planned," Nadir hissed to Madame Giry, who was now clutching her heart.

"He didn't! And he would never – I don't understand it!" she insisted desperately, her eyes scanning the crowd for some sign of Christine. "Nadir, if she fell, and she's..." she began, her voice shaking with fear. Nadir gripped her shoulders and gave a strained nod. He didn't want to think about it, but he knew what it could very easily mean.

"I know. But as long as _she's_ safe, that's all that matters, Marie," he said firmly.

"It will kill her, if she knew," she whispered fearfully. He sighed, and nodded.

"Don't – don't think about that. We don't know what happened," he murmured. He looked as if he were about to say something else when he spied Raoul rushing into the wings. "Ask him if he knows anything," he instructed Madame Giry quickly.

"Raoul, do you know what's going on? Have you seen Christine?" she questioned the young man desperately. Raoul shook his head.

"No, I – I have no idea what – she fell, didn't she? That's why she screamed?" he demanded, his skin pale, his eyes wide and afraid, his whole body trembling.

"We don't know. Come, Nadir, we need to go find her," she called, pushing her way through the crowd. She led the way as the three hurried downstairs to the chamber that the trapdoors led to, but before they could make it down there; they were intercepted by one of the policeman, who held the familiar form of Christine in his arms, with at least three other officers following close behind.

"Christine!" Raoul cried frantically when he saw the blood. And there was a great deal of it, pouring down Christine's dress and over the policeman's shoulder from a large gash on her head. "What happened to her? Is she alright?" he practically screamed as the policeman pushed past him.

"Raoul, come here," came a queerly gentle and calm voice through the rabble backstage. Philippe stood at the top of the staircase, his face expressionless. Raoul looked up to his brother desperately.

"Philippe, she – she's been hurt!" he croaked out.

"I know. Madame Giry, does she need a hospital?" Philippe questioned the woman frantically.

Marie looked to the man standing coolly at the top of the staircase, and then to Christine and the police. She met Nadir's eyes, and she could see the suspicion flashing in them, despite the overwhelming fear that came from even glancing to Christine's form.

"I don't know," she answered calmly. "I'll take care of it. She should be fine," she insisted, even though her heart beating painfully against her chest said otherwise.

"Good," Philippe smiled, nodding to the police officer. "Kahn, isn't it? Please, take the girl, and make sure she gets cleaned up. But be careful, she looks like she's had quite a fall," he commented lightly. Out of the corner of her eye, Marie could see Nadir's fists clench, but he merely nodded, and took the prostrate Christine from the officer.

"But, but she's bleeding! She needs a hospital!" Raoul insisted.

"Madame Giry is a fully qualified doctor, Raoul. She will take care of her, I'm sure," Philippe said calmly.

"I'm coming with you."

"Raoul, I don't think so. You're staying here," his brother countered, his voice firm. Raoul looked desperately to Christine, but an icy glare from Philippe ceased his protests.

"We'll call you, but she's going to be fine," Madame Giry insisted to the young man, who gave a weak nod.

"I'll be there as soon as I can," he murmured pathetically.

Not waiting for another second to stay and talk, Nadir pushed through the wings to the set of doors leading to a small landing where the ballet girls would have their cigarettes between acts. He and Madame Giry hurried down the stairs to the back of the theatre where Nadir's car was parked.

"Is she really alright?" he demanded of Marie, who was rushing to keep up with him.

"I – I don't know. Nadir, Philippe did this. I know he did," she insisted. He nodded.

"We can't worry about that right now. Where's Erik?" he questioned breathlessly, when they were rushing past the sea of cars as fast as their legs could carry them.

"Give her to me," came a strained voice that made them both jump in surprise. Standing by Nadir's car was Erik, his body slumped in shadows but the expression on his face clear. It frightened Nadir, who had known him through good times and bad, to see such an unfamiliar face that was torn by fear.

Without objection, Nadir passed her into Erik's arms and pulled open the car door. Erik slid into the backseat as he held Christine's head against his chest, as if that alone could stop the bleeding. Nadir climbed into the front seat and Madame Giry joined Erik in the back.

"Erik, let her go, I need to check her head," she insisted as Nadir started the car.

"Get away from her!" Erik practically roared, pulling her closer to his body.

"Erik, I need to check the wound! I'm a _doctor_, Erik, please!" she demanded. His chest heaving and his body trembling, Erik nodded, and reluctantly loosened his hold on Christine.

She was dreadfully pale, and her face was almost completely covered with the same blood that spilled over her dress.

"Erik, I can't reach. Check that there's no more blood," she commanded, using the skirt of her gown to wipe away enough blood from Christine's face so she could check her pupils.

"W – What? She hit her head, I saw it," he questioned in confusion. Madame Giry sighed, and leant over, pulling up the hem of Christine's dress. "What are you doing?" he exclaimed.

"Has she –"

"No," she answered Nadir before he even finished his question. "But that doesn't mean she won't, still. We need to get her to the hospital," she insisted. "Erik, you said you saw her fall? What happened?" she demanded.

"What did you mean when you –"

"_Erik, _now is not the time!" Nadir barked. Erik looked between them with confusion, before swallowing.

"It was the trapdoor. It wasn't secured, and when she jumped on the crash mat she slid through it. I was watching from the platforms," he explained, his voice gripped with fear as he desperately clutched to her body. "She slid down to the side and hit her head on the edge before she landed on the mat, a – and she didn't move," he continued quickly. "Marie, t – tell me she's going to live," he begged.

"I think she should be alright. I don't know about the child," she answered, grabbing Christine's wrist to check her pulse.

"What?" Erik frowned, staring at Madame Giry as if she had just grown another head. "What are you talking about?" he demanded.

"Erik, Christine is pregnant. Or she _was_. I don't know, it's too early to tell," she murmured distractedly, wiping away more blood.

"No, she's not," he insisted. "She couldn't be. Not unless –" he stopped, and looked to Nadir in the front seat.

"_No_, Erik, I never touched her," Nadir insisted before the thought could properly form in Erik's mind. "Alright, we're almost there. And Erik, think about it. She's gained weight, she's nauseous, she's –"

"_Not_ pregnant! I don't know my own wife, and she would never keep something like that from me!" he barked back. Before the car had properly stopped he clutched Christine to his chest and pulled open the door, leaping out onto the pavement outside the nearest hospital.

"Erik! Get back here!" Madame Giry cried, jumping out to follow him. "No, this way, we need to take her to the emergency centre," she directed, leading him past the first set of doors he had been headed to. Nadir caught up with them a moment later, just as Erik burst into the emergency room.

"Somebody help me!" he barked out to the first person he could see. The nurse leapt back in surprise to see a masked man holding a bleeding woman in his arms bursting through the doors, and immediately scampered away to fetch a doctor.

"Erik, calm down! You can't just –"

"_Look at her_, Marie!" he cried, his voice breaking. She stepped back with the intensity of his command. "Don't you _dare_ chastise me when she's –"

"Both of you, just stop it!" Nadir snapped, casting a nervous glance around the room. "Arguing isn't going to help anyone. We need to get her looked at right away," he hissed, before turning to Madame Giry. "You need to go with the doctors. Stay with her and try to tell us what's going on when you find out. We'll be waiting," he instructed.

"I'm not waiting; I need to be with her!" Erik retorted through gritted teeth.

"Erik, it won't help anyone, especially not her," he murmured. Erik looked like he wanted to object, but he was stopped when a man with wiry black hair and a white coat appeared, the frightened nurse cowering behind him.

Before Erik knew what was happening, Christine had been taken from his arms and he was standing in the waiting room with Nadir, blood stains down his shirt and his body shaking.

"Erik, sit down."

He didn't move.

"Erik, come on. Just sit down, she's going to be alright," Nadir sighed, pulling his friend's arm until he managed to get him into a chair. Some people stared curiously to see a strange masked man with his shirt covered in blood, but no one spoke. "Erik, we think Philippe had something to do with this," he murmured quietly.

Erik didn't reply.

"He was in the wings when we came up with Christine. He made Raoul stay backstage; it was like he wanted Marie and I to take her away from him. They're up to something," he continued, keeping his voice low.

Erik still didn't respond.

"Erik, please. _Listen to me_. Something about this doesn't fit," he insisted.

"Nadir," he replied, his voice barely more than a croak. Nadir gave a start to realise it was the first time Erik had ever used his real name before. "My wife is in this hospital somewhere, probably terrified and in a lot of pain. Right now, I don't care about Philippe or Raoul or anything else, because Christine is – she could be –" his voice broke and he leant forwards, burying his head in his hands and letting out a sound that was half a sob and half a growl.

Nadir didn't speak; he only clapped his hand against Erik's back and tried not to think about anything at all.

After some time of silence, in which they heard nothing from Madame Giry or any of the doctors and nurses, Erik finally spoke, his voice muffled by his hands, which were still pressed over his face.

"If I find out that either of those de Chagnys had something to do with this, I will tear both of them apart, limb from limb," he murmured almost wearily.

"I think there's going to be a line for that," Nadir sighed.

It was at least a half hour that had felt like eternity before Marie finally appeared, with the wiry-haired doctor right behind her. Nadir felt his heart sink when he saw the grave expression on the doctor's face.

"What's happening? Is she alright?" Erik demanded, quickly rising from his chair when they appeared.

"Please. May we see Christine?" Nadir requested in very broken French, his voice much gentler than Erik's frantic tones. He had learnt a long time ago that it was best to remain calm with doctors.

"She has suffered a large trauma to her head which required some stitches, but nothing too serious," the doctor answered in perfect English, turning to Nadir and ignoring Erik altogether. "However, the shock has sent her into labour. The results from the ultrasound reveal that she's –"

"She's _not_ pregnant!" Erik insisted angrily, cutting through the doctor's explanation.

"Erik, she is. They gave her an ultrasound while she was having her stitches," Madame Giry explained calmly, her voice barely a murmur. Erik looked from her to the doctor wildly.

"But... but I don't understand," he protested. "Unless she were..." he stopped, and his cheeks suddenly flushed red.

"She's about thirty-seven weeks, Erik. A little over eight months," Marie stated, the disapproval plain in her voice. Erik opened his mouth to reply, but no words came.

"She can't give birth _now_, though, can she?" Nadir exclaimed, turning to the doctor.

"We think its best. The foetus seems to be well developed, and it's only three weeks early," he answered calmly.

"But she doesn't _look_ pregnant," Erik insisted weakly.

"Different women carry in different ways. She gained about ten kilos, Erik, and a lot of that was around her stomach," Marie explained simply. He ran a hand through his dark hair, desperately trying to process the information.

"My apologies, but who are you, monsieur?" the doctor questioned Erik suddenly.

"He's the father," Nadir interjected immediately. The doctor raised one thick black brow.

"Of the foetus, or of the young lady?" he drawled.

Erik's eyes flashed dark with anger and Nadir had to push him back before he lunged at the doctor, who stood completely unaffected.

"Erik! This isn't helping!" Madame Giry snapped. He stopped struggling against Nadir, and glared at the doctor.

"I'm suggesting an emergency caesarean," the doctor announced. "She's already in extreme pain, and she's clearly not in a fit –"

"She's awake?"

"Erik, you can't see her," Madame Giry insisted.

"Who is with her now? Does she know what's happening?" he demanded.

"Not at present. She was unconscious during the ultrasound, and we've given her some treatment for the pain. But she's not in a fit state to make decisions, so we need a family member to consent for the caesarean," the doctor explained calmly.

"Are there risks?" Erik questioned immediately.

"Caesarean procedures hold minor risks for the foetus, but so does natural birth," he replied. "In her state, monsieur, she's not physically capable of natural birth. It's the safest option for her," he answered dutifully.

"Marie?" Erik murmured desperately, glancing to the woman. She reached forwards and squeezed his hand.

"Erik, who is your first priority?" she questioned him gently.

"Christine. Always Christine," he replied firmly. She gave a slightly pained smile.

"Then do it. I think it's the best way," she assured him. He took a deep breath, and then nodded.

"Then do it. I'm her husband, I give you permission."

"Thank you, monsieur. We'll need you to sign a consent form as soon as possible," the doctor nodded, leading him towards the front desk.

"I want to be there, with her. Can I do that?" he requested. Madame Giry took his hand once more.

"Erik, no. That won't help her, it'll only make things worse," she murmured. He shook his head.

"I need to be there for her. And..." he stopped, and swallowed. "And for... for the child," he murmured weakly.

"No, Erik. Trust me. That's not the place for you," Nadir insisted.

Erik didn't respond, but he was shaking as he filled out the necessary forms. The doctor gave him a sympathetic grimace.

"You can see her now, if you want. But just for a minute before we take her in," he offered.

Erik glanced to Nadir and Madame Giry, but they gave him no response. Steeling himself, he nodded.

"Yes. I want to see her," he said finally, turning back to the doctor.

"Alright, follow me. We're trying to fit in as many prenatal tests as possible before the procedure, but we can't leave it much longer," he explained as they began to walk down the hallway. It was both the longest and the shortest trip of Erik's life as they finally arrived at that small room.

He heard her crying before he saw her. But there she was, lying the bed, still wearing her _Don Juan Triumphant_ costume, the bodice pushed up to reveal the slight curve of her stomach. She was awake, but she seemed hazy and disorientated, her hand gripping the bed sheet tightly.

When he looked at her, knowing she was pregnant, he couldn't understand how he had possibly missed it before. He swallowed as he stepped into the room, his mind completely blank. It had been racing a second ago, but now he could barely process the image before him.

"Christine," he murmured, not even realising he had spoken until he heard his own words.

She turned her head and her glassy eyes moved to his face, and before he knew it he was by her side, clutching her hands tightly with his forehead pressed against hers.

"God, Christine, please be alright," he begged her desperately, feeling tears sting his eyes. "I couldn't live without you, not now. I just can't lose you," he cried, pressing gentle kisses against her forehead.

"Did you want to see the foetus?" the doctor questioned. Erik turned his head to see him with a screen playing some sort of tape by the bed.

And there it was. On that little screen, black and white and fuzzy but distinctively _human_. He stared at the image in complete disbelief. He looked from the screen to Christine, and then to the doctor, and swallowed.

"Is it... alright?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"We haven't seen any signs of abnormality. But we don't have time to do all the tests to check," he explained simply, flicking off the machine. Erik felt his heart sink, because he had only had a moment to look at it, really.

Christine cried out suddenly in pain, her unfocused eyes screwing shut and her hands gripping his so tightly it actually hurt, and for a woman her size, that was quite something.

Without even thinking, Erik held her once more, and began to hum. After a moment her grip loosened, and her breathing eased. In a minute she was asleep and breathing normally. He placed her hand carefully on the bed.

"Impressive," the doctor commented appreciatively.

"If she dies, I'm holding you personally responsible. And you don't want to know how dangerous it is to be an enemy of mine," he growled. The doctor rolled his eyes, clearly not fussed.

"Alright. You should go now; we need to start the procedure. I'll have someone get you when it's done," he stated almost boredly, shuffling Erik out of the room.

"Wait!" he objected suddenly, pushing past the doctor to stand by Christine's bed. With great hesitation, he placed his hand atop her stomach, and pictures the black and white imagine in his mind's eye. Somehow the pictures didn't connect, but all the same... it wasn't like he was going to have that opportunity again. "Alright. I'll go," he murmured finally, tearing himself away from her side.

"We'll do our best, monsieur," the doctor assured him. Erik nodded, but didn't respond. He left the room before he didn't know if he could.

He walked slowly back to the waiting room, his mind reeling. He kept on picturing that image over and over again, trying to work out dates. It was as he had suspected; the child had been conceived when Christine still thought he was a ghost, and he hadn't thought ahead enough to consider any sort of protection. It was his fault.

"How is she?" Nadir asked anxiously the moment he returned to the waiting room. He glanced up to see the nervous expression on his friend's face. He sometimes forgot that Nadir cared for her too. He usually didn't like to think of it, but it was actually almost comforting to know that someone else was desperate for her to be alright.

"I don't know," he shrugged. How could he respond? She was in pain, he could tell that much, but she had also been in some sort of hazy stupor. "I think she's going to be fine. I don't know about the child, he said nothing came up, but they don't have time to do all the tests," he explained as best he could. "I... I saw it. The baby. Our child," he added, somewhat sheepishly.

Nadir smiled. "It's strange, isn't it," he commented. Erik nodded. "I had nine months to come to terms with it. I don't know how you're going to get your head around it in the next few hours," he chuckled.

Erik was silent for a moment, but he knew both Nadir and Madame Giry were waiting for him to speak.

"Why didn't you tell me? Or her?" he demanded suddenly. That had been burning in his mind since he found out. But there had been other questions to ask first. "We could have gone to doctors, she could have stopped training and – and we would have had _time_," he insisted, his voice rising in anger.

"Erik, we didn't think she was this far along," Madame Giry replied gently.

"I only had a moment to see my child, I never got to feel my baby's first kicks, or – or to watch it grow with Christine, I missed all of that!" he growled.

"Erik. You have to understand, we didn't think it would come to this. We had no idea, we only thought she was three or four months at the most," Nadir explained. "And we didn't know how you would take it. We all know you're not the fatherly type, and you've said before that you hate children," he reminded him.

"How would you feel if Reza was just dropped off on your doorstep with no notice? Or Meg? Imagine if someone just handed her to you and said she's yours?" he demanded furiously, glaring at the two of them. "I might not be that kind of man, but what about Christine? Don't you think she deserved a chance to –"

"You can't simply blame us, all the signs were there!" Madame Giry objected. Erik stared at her incredulously.

"To a doctor! To a man who already _had_ all of that! But not to _me_! Not to a teenage girl whose mother died ten years ago! Not to a circus freak who never even _had _a mother!" he cried angrily. He felt so incredibly _cheated_. Like he had missed out on the most important experience of his life because of them. "You're a doctor! You're _her_ doctor, how could you keep that from her? What on earth possessed you to do that?" he demanded bitterly.

Madame Giry opened her mouth to object, but she closed it without saying a word, and lowered her head. Nadir continued to stare at Erik.

"What if it's sick, Daroga? What if it's sick and we could have done something if we had known?"

"Alright, Erik. That's enough," he interjected coolly. "Yes, we should have told you. But you're wasting your time arguing with us; just enjoy the fact that you're about to be a father. Don't take it for granted," he muttered, rising from his chair and walking right past him and out of the emergency room doors.

Erik stared after him, but didn't move.

"He just needs to cool off. Give him a minute," Madame Giry assured him. Erik nodded, and sat down. He knew that Nadir had no right to be angry with him; because it certainly wasn't his fault that Reza died, and projecting his sorrow on someone else just wasn't fair, but Nadir was his friend, all the same.

Nadir came back after a while, and he and Madame Giry started to talk about Philippe and Raoul and what was going on. He tried to listen for a few minutes, but he couldn't concentrate. His mind kept going back to Christine.

Christine and... the child.

It occurred to him that he didn't know if it was a boy or a girl. Which did he want?

Neither, said a voice in the back of his head, but he knew it was lying.

Of course he had always said that he hated children. He wasn't really lying, but he knew that had he not grown up with the belief that he would never be a father and he would never know what it's like to have one's own child, things would have been different. _He _would have been different.

He thought about it for a moment. Gender made things seem a lot more real than he had expected. There were things that he needed, he realised. Babies needed beds and nappies and food and clothing, and he had none of that. Babies needed names and genders and homes.

A girl, he decided. A girl would be nice. A little girl like Christine, with her big emerald eyes and her chocolate curls, with her beautiful voice and hopefully not his temper. He didn't want them to be anything like him.

A horrible thought occurred to him. He sat up suddenly.

"Marie, what if it's... what if it's like me?" he questioned, his voice weak as dread descended on him. Madame Giry and Nadir both stopped their conversation.

It had been hard enough as a boy to deal with his deformity, but to a girl... to a girl like Christine, it would be hell. He couldn't imagine.

"It's not genetic, Erik. It's very unlikely," she assured him gently. He raised his hand to his face. He knew what it was, of course. He knew that he wasn't just exceptionally ugly, he knew about the condition itself, and he knew that there was far too much risk of ruptures and bleeding and even facial paralysis for plastic surgery, that there wasn't a lot one could do.

"But... but what if it's a girl, and she has a face like mine?" he asked with a bitter chuckle. "Imagine that. A little girl like Christine, forced to wear a mask all her life," he spat.

"Christine would never put her child in a mask, Erik. She would love it no matter how it looked," Nadir interjected suddenly.

Erik knew he was right. Christine would never see anything wrong with a child; she wasn't that kind of person. She wouldn't beat their child, she wouldn't shun it or hate it; she would love any child no matter how it looked.

"I'd be more concerned about what would happen if it has your temper," Nadir sniggered.

"Or your stubbornness. Or – oh, Lord, it'll get that from both of you," Madame Giry laughed.

"It will sing like an angel, of course," Nadir commented.

"And throw tantrums like devil," she agreed.

"_Thank you_, but could we stop this subtle assault on my character?" Erik snapped. The two continued to laugh at his expense regardless. He rolled his eyes and decided to ignore them.

Yes, a girl would be nice, he decided, but what about a boy? A boy with whom he could teach his trade and craft and tricks. A boy who would be doted on by his mother, no doubt. A boy who would never have to suffer the cruelties his father had to endure.

Father.

The word sounded strange. He had no recollection of his father. He remembered very vaguely a woman, more for the pain he sharply associated with her, but there was never a man. A boy, he thought, sometimes, when he tried very hard to remember, to unlock what he had put away. Maybe a girl? Yes, he was certain there was a girl, smaller than him, and... nice. Or as nice as they could be.

That had been his family, he supposed, but from what little he recalled he didn't think they really deserved the term. But now he was going to have a family.

Or at least he hoped he was. Each second seemed to tick away with agonising slowness, but still there was no word. What if Christine died? What if the child died?

He knew which life he would prefer to keep, but all the same...

He glanced to the clock for what felt like the millionth time, and gave a frustrated sigh.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

"Philippe, I want to see Christine!"

Philippe almost rolled his eyes when he heard his brother's complaints once more.

"Shut up, Raoul. She's fine," he snapped, frowning as he inspected the plush red carpet. "Check the seats, see if any of them are loose anywhere. There might be some sort of trapdoor or something," he instructed.

Raoul gave a petulant sigh, but did as his brother commanded. The moment the opera house was cleared they had been there, searching every nook and cranny of box five; meanwhile, the managers were overseeing the expedition into the lower storage rooms with several of the stagehands and armed police.

"What am I looking for?" Raoul sighed bitterly, giving the seat a kick.

"Just _look_. There's something in here, I know it," he threw back, now directing his eyes back to the lower panels. He had checked them before when he and his wife viewed the performance, but he was running out of ideas. He began to inspect each one in turn, applying pressure, knocking to check that they weren't hollow, attempting to slide back and forth, until he moved unsuccessfully onto the next one.

"There's nothing. It's just a wall," Raoul snapped, glancing over to his brother, who was on his knees in front of the last panel.

"This one is different," Philippe stated blankly, knocking on the wood, only to hear a hollow sound.

"Didn't you say you checked them before?" his brother frowned.

"I did, and it didn't... oh," he stopped, with a sudden laugh. "He was there. He must have muffled the sound so I wouldn't notice it was hollow. I was almost right next to him!" he chuckled, running his fingers along the sides of the raised panel until he found a very small catch. He pushed down on it, and the panel slid aside easily.

"Philippe... is that what I think it is?" Raoul murmured nervously, glancing at the endless black passageway that now appeared.

"Yes. This is the entrance. Or at least one of them," he nodded, standing back. "Go fetch a few of the _gendarme_. Make sure they have torches," he instructed to his brother.

"But what if he's..."

"He's not in there. I can assure you. He's otherwise distracted," Philippe replied shortly, feeling his lips curve to a smirk.

He was getting very, very close.

**A/N: Nice long chapter, but still a bit of a cliffie. I'm officially finished the semester now, so plenty of time for a break and hopefully for some writing, and I plan on updating at more regular intervals, too. Well, as long as you review, that is ;)**


	43. The Birth

"Monsieur?"

Erik snapped out of his musings the moment he heard the doctor's voice. He felt Nadir's hand on his shoulder, but he took no notice of it. His heart was pounding against his chest.

"Yes? Is she alright? Is it over? Can I see her?" he demanded immediately. He tried to gage the doctor's expression – was it good news, or bad?

"She's unconscious, and we have no intention of waking her for the next few hours. Her head injury has left her quite weak, so we think it best she rests for a little while," he answered quite calmly.

"Are they alright?" Nadir questioned Marie, and she nodded, quickly translating for him.

"He wants to know if Christine will be okay," she stated, turning back to the doctor. He nodded.

"Yes, she should be fine. A few days recovery and she'll be able to go home," he assured them in English. Erik heard Madame Giry let out a relieved sigh, but now there was something else burning in his thoughts.

"And the child? Is it –" he paused, not even sure what he wished to ask. The doctor smiled.

"You can go see your son now, if you would like. He's doing a lot better than we had expected."

Son.

He had a son.

The word echoed around his brain as he tried to process it. He knew Nadir and Marie were speaking, congratulating him, he supposed, but all he could think was that word... _son_.

He was a _father_.

"Is he..." he began, his voice uncharacteristically weak. "Uh, is he... he's alright? I, uh... well, I suppose you can guess," he muttered bitterly, gesturing to his mask. The doctor gave him a comforting smile.

"I assumed. But yes, he's fine. We can't see any complications, but we'll be running more tests. His face is completely normal," he assured him.

Erik slowly nodded, and tried to tell his body to move. He had to get up; he had to see his wife and son.

"I want to see Christine," he murmured. The word itself seemed to give him the strength to rise to his feet, even if he felt like collapsing to the ground.

"You... don't want to see your son?" the doctor questioned in surprise.

"I will see him as soon as I've made sure that my wife is alright," he replied coolly.

"Well then... follow me," he muttered, slightly perturbed, leading the trio through the hallway. It was a different room this time, and Christine wasn't the only person in it, but the curtains on the other beds were pulled shut and she lay there silently, with a nurse scribbling things over a chart by the end of the bed.

Nadir and Madame Giry immediately hurried into the room and stood by her bed. Erik remained in the doorway. It hurt him too much to look at her, so he lowered his eyes to the floor. When the others had noticed his inattention, they stepped away from Christine, and worriedly tried to catch his eye.

"Alright then. Take me to him," he demanded, turning back to the doctor. He restored his mask of steely reserve, and then began to lead them through to another wing.

He lingered a little behind Madame Giry and Nadir. He was still trying to process, trying to understand what had happened, _why_ it had happened. And he was completely and totally petrified for what was going to happen next.

"Alright, he's in here. We're about to take him to have a few more tests, but you can have a little time with him first," the doctor announced, finally showing them into a small room with great deals of machinery, but all that Erik could see was a clear plastic cot behind a large and unpleasant looking nurse. "I think the father would like a few moments, if you please," he requested of the nurse, who scowled, and put down her chart.

"Alright, but fifteen minutes at the most," she warned, before pushing past them and back into the hall to have a few words with the doctor.

Erik took one step into the room, and then another, and followed it by one more, until he was standing by the cot, staring down at the wriggling, pinkish thing that lay there.

His heart stopped. Literally, for a moment, it simply stopped, and then began to beat painfully against his ribs. He tried to breathe, but it was suddenly one of the hardest things he had ever attempted.

"Can I hold him?" he murmured, turning back to Nadir and Madame Giry, who stood in the doorway, soft smiles on their faces.

"I think so," she nodded, sweeping over to his side. He carefully picked the child up from beneath its arms, when it started to squirm and made strangled little noises of discomfort. He had a tuft of black hair on the top of his head, and little eyes squeezed shut. "Here, you need to mind his head, he can't lift it himself yet," she instructed, helping him adjust his hold on the child until it lay in his arms with its head in the crook of Erik's elbow.

"Why doesn't he open his eyes?" he frowned, struggling as the boy wriggled and squirmed in his grip.

"It's too bright for him in here. It's going to take a little while before he can handle any sort of bright light," Nadir explained, strolling up to his side, and peering over Erik's shoulder. "He looks like you," he commented with surprise.

"No, he doesn't. He's perfect, and I'm..." Erik stopped, his eyes running over his son's features. Perhaps there was something similar.

"He'll have your colouring, just you wait," Marie smiled.

"I – I think I need to sit down," Erik murmured, searching for a chair. He collapsed into an uncomfortable armchair by the cot, feeling suddenly a great deal more secure with his hold over the baby.

It felt so very strange to have that warm weight in his arms. He was very small, perhaps too small, but he had never seen a newborn baby before, so he didn't know.

"Nadir, is he small? Smaller than normal?" he demanded, looking up to his friend, who was regarding the sight with a small smile.

"A little. Reza was bigger when he was first born, but Reza wasn't so early," he explained. Erik gave a strained nod, and turned back down to his son. His eyes were open just a little, and they were the most magnificent milky blue he had ever seen.

"Hello," Erik whispered, his voice barely audible. He adjusted his hold so the boy sat in only one arm, and with his other hand he pushed back the plain hospital blanket that he had been wrapped in. His head seemed a little oddly shaped, but he supposed that could be because he didn't have very much hair. "Oh," he murmured in surprise, when a tiny little hand managed to squirm its way out of the blanket, and almost blindly reach up to his face.

He had the tiniest little fingers that Erik had ever seen, and could barely wrap around one finger on his own large hand. He felt his eyes sting with tears, but he didn't bother fighting them. He didn't want to. It was impossible to think that he'd had some part in making the little creature in his arms. Suddenly, all of his life's work seemed to come to nothing. It was _nothing_ compared to that moment.

Nadir and Madame Giry gave him a moment alone with his son, but all too soon the nurse returned, stating that he needed to be taken for more tests. He protested, but it was useless.

"I'm sorry, we just need to check things like his vision and brain functioning, but so far he seems fine," the doctor apologised, when they stood back out in the hallway. "So I understand that you weren't aware of your wife's pregnancy until tonight?" he questioned with a raised brow.

"No. Neither was she," he replied hoarsely, shaking his head.

"Did she engage in any rigorous training, heavy lifting, heavy drinking, or any drug usage, either recreational or prescription during the pregnancy?"

"She... uh, she did a lot of training, dancing and the like," Erik murmured. "She, uhh, had a glass of wine every now and then, but she wasn't on any drugs," he explained, with a slightly pained expression. "I... I know that some drugs can... harm children," he began slowly, and Nadir groaned.

"God, Erik, I thought you gave that up!" he hissed angrily.

"I have! I'm completely clean now, I don't even smoke! I wasn't on anything when we... but I _have_ been before," he explained, turning to the doctor. "I – I was on morphine for a while, and, err, then heroin, and some cocaine every now and then," he murmured shamefully, running a hand through his dark hair. Marie stated at him in disbelief.

"You were on heroin?" she exclaimed with disgust.

"It was a long time ago, at least five years," Erik insisted sharply.

"Then I don't think you have any cause for concern. As long as none of them were in your system during the conception, then we shouldn't see any adverse effects," the doctor assured, cutting the argument short. "Now, your wife gained an insufficient amount of weight during her pregnancy, according to Doctor Giry," he commented, turning to Marie.

"About ten kilos, but she was dangerously underweight before that," she insisted.

"And as it is, it appears that she will be unable to breastfeed the child. This means he'll have to be bottle fed, but it will also give your wife more time to recover," he explained calmly to Erik, who gave a strained nod. "He'll need to stay here for a few days so we can finish the tests and monitor his growth. Do you have a name for him yet?" he asked, when Erik didn't reply.

"I – uh, no, not yet," he murmured, frowning in thought.

"Well, there are some forms that need to be filled out, insurance information and such. I'm sure the nurses will assist you as best they can so you have time to get whatever you might need for the child," he nodded, before giving directions for them to return to the front office.

"He's right. I need to get things for him," Erik muttered as they stepped into the elevator. He started to pace as his mind spun out of control. He had no idea what he needed, things were happening too quickly!

"We can do that. Once you've taken care of the paperwork I can do all of that for you," Marie assured.

"Erik, I know this isn't the time, but the gala is in three days, and Christine won't be able to perform. She might not even be able to leave the hospital before then," Nadir murmured, casting his eyes around the elevator to check that the other occupants weren't listening.

"I don't care. Things are different now," he snapped.

"Yes, and that's why you need to do something. Write a note, Marie can drop it off at the theatre and they'll assume it was you. We need to postpone it," he hissed. Erik sighed, leaning against the wall of the elevator just as it came to a stop on their floor.

"Later. There are things we need to do now," he replied, before finally slipping out of the elevator ahead of them.

The paperwork was challenging. Because Erik didn't really exist, it was harder to sort out medical bills and discuss the need of birth certificates than it would have been for most people.

"I don't _have_ a birth certificate. Why do they need it? You have my name, just put that on my son's certificate!" he snapped at the receptionist. She winced with his harsh tone.

"But, monsieur, you will need it when you register his birth. And everyone has a birth certificate, monsieur," she insisted. He scoffed, and stepped back away from the desk. Marie spoke with the nurse for a few minutes before Erik could be persuaded to rejoin them, and they managed to fill out the rest of the information without much complaint.

"What now? Can I see him again? Can I see Christine?" Erik demanded of Nadir, who merely shrugged.

"How should I know? There are other things we need to discuss, Erik," he insisted sternly.

"Please, Nadir. Not now," he begged tiredly, running a hand through his dark hair.

"Erik, we can't arrange anything until we know what will happen next. Marie has told the doctors and nurses that they can't tell Raoul anything about why she's really here, but that won't keep his brother in the dark," he said, leading Erik to the nearest chairs. "Raoul will probably come here, so Christine can't see the child, not when he might walk in and discover that his greatest enemy impregnated his fiancée," he added, which earned him a dark look from Erik.

"Are you suggesting Christine doesn't get to see her son at all?" he demanded coolly.

"She can, just not yet, not while we don't know where Raoul is and when he'll turn up. Now, after the gala, where were you planning on going?" he asked, as Madame Giry joined them.

"The castle."

"Are you sure that's wise?" Madame Giry exclaimed in surprise.

"Trust me. After the gala, they will know our position full well, and I doubt they'd bother coming after us," Erik assured them, his voice firm, but not hinting to his intentions. "And even if they did, we would be ready for them. I've committed no real crime against them; they couldn't use their police for this one."

"So we need to contact Madame Sorelli, and she needs to prepare a nursery there," Nadir decided. "But still – you won't be able to leave as early as you thought you could. She'll need probably two weeks before she can perform again, this gala has to be postponed," he insisted. Erik sighed, and nodded.

"Alright. Two weeks, I'll write them a note, but I doubt they're going to be pleased about it," he muttered bitterly.

"That doesn't matter. I'll go get you some paper and a pen and I'll drop it off," Madame Giry announced, standing up immediately.

When they were alone, Nadir didn't speak for a moment, and Erik was perfectly happy to remain silent. He was still processing.

"I know this has all been very sudden... but have you considered the possibility that Christine is being used as bait right now?" Nadir questioned after several minutes of silence had passed between them.

"Well then it worked. And I really don't care. I'm here now, and that's the only place I should be. I don't care if they're setting landmines in my own passageways, that doesn't matter now," he shrugged. Nadir sighed.

"Erik, the rest of the world doesn't just stop because Christine had a baby. We still have to get you two out of Paris and free from Raoul and Philippe, only now there's someone else we need to consider, too," he protested.

"Daroga, I understand you completely, but right now, I don't give a damn."

Nadir didn't even attempt to push the conversation any further. He knew that there was no point, Erik wasn't interested in talking. He could understand, after all, the man had just become a father, but that didn't mean they all weren't still in danger. They had no idea what Philippe was planning, but it probably wasn't good.

Marie appeared with some paper and pen before Nadir had a chance to give his friend a lecture on his responsibilities to his new family, and Erik scribbled a note demanding that the gala be postponed, due to the 'foul play of certain patrons and their brothers'. He made his usual threats, and signed the note as _OG_ – Opera Ghost.

"Come on then. We should find Christine," Erik muttered when Madame Giry had gone. He looked down the hallway nervously, as if he didn't really want to go there at all.

The two walked to Christine's room in silence. Outside the ward Nadir questioned a young nurse to check if Christine had woken up, and was informed that she was very drowsy, but conscious.

"Alright, Erik. Go speak to her," Nadir murmured when they stopped just outside the room.

Erik took a deep breath, and then he slowly started to step through the doorway. He felt his heart physically jerk the moment he entered the cold, sterile post-operative ward. He hadn't been able to get that far before because of the way she looked in that bed. He couldn't stand the sight of Christine, lying there, so pale and so... lifeless. He turned away immediately with a choked sort of sob. Nadir clapped him firmly on the shoulder.

"Erik, she just gave birth to your son. Go to her. If she's awake, she probably wants to see you," he insisted firmly. "Let her know that you're happy, after what she's gone through... she'll want to hear that," he instructed.

Erik took a deep breath and turned back round to make a second attempt at entering the room. He slowly walked up to Christine's side, and gently took her hand. He sat down on the side of the bed, his eyes traced on her features, before reaching out to softly push back a lock of her dark brown hair. She seemed mildly lucid, in a state of half dream and half sleep.

"I'll give you some time alone," Nadir said quietly, stepping out of the room, but Erik didn't seem to notice.

His head was so full of the events of the past few hours. If someone had told him that morning that in a few hours he was to be a father he would never have believed them. He would have told them they were being ridiculous, he didn't like children. But when his thoughts turned to that beautiful, pink little wriggling creature he'd held in his arms, he knew that was a lie. Because he loved his son almost as much as he loved Christine, and that was saying something.

"Hello," he greeted his wife softly, as she gave a small groan and shifted, her dark eyes fluttering open. Those emerald orbs traced his figure and then focused; her perfect little mouth in a slight frown before she gasped.

"Erik!" she cried suddenly, trying to sit up, but she fell back down onto the bed with a wince.

"Shh, don't strain yourself, Christine!" he commanded sternly, but his tone was more concerned than it was condemning. He eased her back onto the bed, his hands gently smoothing back her hair. "I'm here. It's alright. It's all fine now," he assured her softly, leaning forwards and pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. He was startled when felt her tears. "Christine? Angel? What's wrong?" he questioned with a frown, pulling back slightly.

"I – I didn't _know_," she insisted brokenly, her whole body trembling. Erik immediately pulled her tightly into his arms, and began to rock her gently back and forth.

"I know. Neither did I, Christine. But it's fine, it's all alright, and it's over now," he hushed her softly, his hands tracing invisible, comforting patterns across her back.

"I – I was on the stage one minute, and then I was in this room, a – and they were cutting me open," she stammered out against his chest. Erik burned with anger, but he only held her closer. "I – I didn't know, Erik! I had n – no idea what had happened!" she insisted pathetically.

"I know, but that's over now, Christine, and you're fine," he replied firmly.

"Erik... what happened? I don't understand any of this," she questioned, pulling away from him slightly, her eyes filled with tears. He smoothed back her dark hair with his trembling hands.

"You... you were thirty-seven weeks pregnant, they said. It must have been from when I..." he trailed off, his cheeks flushing in shame. "I'm sorry. I did this to you, I made you go through this because of what I did," he muttered, lowering his head and leaning his brow against hers, his hands clutching tightly at her shoulders.

"Is the... the baby okay?" she asked tentatively. He looked up with a smile on his face.

"Yes. Yes, he's perfect," he said hoarsely, feeling tears sting his eyes once more.

"It's a boy?"

He nodded, his smile growing.

"D – Did you see him? Is he – is he alright? I – I didn't get to see him," she questioned hurriedly, wiping away tears. Erik felt himself practically grin as he pushed back her hair.

"I did see him, and I held him, and... oh god, Christine, he's so beautiful," he sighed, pressing his forehead against hers. "He's the most incredible thing I've ever seen, and his little fingers are so small they could barely wrap around my thumb," he described, feeling tears come to his eyes to mix with the laughter of his voice.

"Really?" she practically breathed. He nodded, and pressed his lips firmly to her temple.

"I am _so_ proud of you, Christine. You – you brought our son into the world, our _son_," he smiled, pulling her back into his chest.

"B – But you don't like children, you said s – so yourself," she mumbled quietly, with a small sniffle.

"Oh, Christine, when you see him... he's the most perfect thing in the world, he's almost as perfect as you," he insisted into her dark locks. "The doctor said they just want to keep him under observation for a few days, they need to make sure he's going to grow properly," he explained, running his hand slowly down her arm.

"I should have known. I – I shouldn't have trained so hard, a – and I should have eaten more," she said firmly, but her voice shook. Erik pulled her back from him with a concerned frown.

"No, Christine, you didn't know, it's not your fault," he assured her. She shook her head, her eyes unfocused.

"No. I – I didn't look after him, I never ate and I never slept and I was always training, and – a – and I w – would h – have killed him if – if I jumped," she continued, her voice breaking into choked sobs. Erik held her close and rocked her back and forth as she sobbed into his chest. "W – What if I've made him sick? He must have been early, wh – what have I done to our baby?" she questioned desperately, beating her fists harmlessly against Erik's chest. He shook his head.

"No. _No_, Christine, it wasn't your fault that you didn't know, and if you did I know you would have done everything to look after him. But he's _safe_, he's healthy and he's going to be fine," Erik said firmly as she continued to cry.

"W – What do we do? I don't know how to look after a baby, Erik, I – I'm scared. I'm so scared," she practically whispered.

"I know. I'm scared too, but Madame Giry, the Daroga, Madame Sorelli; they'll all be able to help us. It just means that we have to wait a little longer before we leave Paris," he answered gently. She nodded.

"What does he look like?" she breathed after a long silence. Erik smiled, and eased himself back on the bed, his arms wrapped around her shoulders.

"He's very small, and quite pink, but I think his skin will probably be the same colour as mine. He's got these lovely big blue eyes and a little bit of hair, not much, but it's rather dark. And he reached out to me and grabbed my fingers with his tiny little hand," he explained, his tone hushed, as if he were telling the most wonderful bedtime story. Christine nodded against his shoulder. "I wanted to stay with him for longer, but they need to do some tests, just to make sure he's alright," he assured her almost excitedly, turning his head to her. Silent tears were rolling down her cheeks. "Christine?"

She took a deep sigh and buried her head in his shoulder.

"I'm barely eighteen. I'm barely eighteen and I just had a baby I didn't know about, and now I – I don't know what to do," she cried quietly. "I want _my_ mother. I want her here, I _need_ her here, a – and I need my father and I want to tell me it's all going to be okay, I want them to tell me what to do, b – because I just don't _know_," she continued, her voice turning into sobs. Erik smoothed back her hair with few other ideas on what to do.

"Christine, I'll be back in one minute. Just... wait for me for one second," he instructed suddenly, pulling himself out of her arms. She nodded, sniffled, and he disappeared from the room for a moment.

"Erik? Is she alright?" Nadir questioned, standing up from the chair in the hallway just outside the ward.

"I think you should come talk to her. She wants her parents, Daroga, and I can't give her that. But I know she cares for you, please, she – she's terrified," he almost begged, his eyes wide and afraid. Nadir nodded in understanding.

"Alright. But you have to come in too, I'm quite certain she wants you there right now, Erik," he replied, before they re-entered the room.

Christine wasn't quite sitting up, but she was leaning against the pillows. Erik immediately went to her side and wrapped his arms around her from behind, her back against his chest, and Nadir went to sit on the side of the bed.

"Well, my dear. How are you feeling?" he questioned with a small, soft smile, reaching for her hands.

"It hurts. All of me hurts, and I feel sick," she replied with a wince. "It was terrifying when I realised where I was, and they wouldn't bring Erik to me. And when it was over, I – I couldn't hold him. They took him away before I even saw him, but I could hear him cry," she stammered, more tears rolling down her cheeks. Nadir squeezed her hands tightly. "I didn't even see him, Nadir. I – I didn't even see m – my baby," she cried, as Erik tightened his hold on her.

"I know. I know you must have been terrified, Christine, but that's all over now. I thought you might like to know what happens next," he said softly. She nodded, wiping away her tears.

"Will – will you stay with me? Will you stay with Erik and the baby and I? I want you to be his godfather, I want you to help us look after him," she insisted firmly. Nadir smiled, and pressed a small kiss to Christine's hand.

"Of course. I'll stay with you two as long as you need me. I was going to suggest it anyway, just until you know what to do, how to look after him," he explained, glancing up to meet Erik's eye. He nodded silently. "It's hard, to raise a child. The first few months will seem impossible, but Christine, I know you're going to be the most wonderful mother in the world, and I saw Erik with your son, I've only ever seen him as besotted with one other thing – _you_," he assured her with a small laugh.

She smiled, and her cheeks flushed pink before he continued.

"I can see that already he loves your child _so_ much. He's going to be the best father your little boy could ever have, but until you two are sure of yourselves, Madame Giry and I are going to do what we can to help you," he insisted.

"Where is she? Is she here?" Christine asked with a slight frown.

"She's back at the theatre, delivering a note, angel," Erik answered, running his hand comfortingly down her arm.

"Oh! Erik, the gala! I can't stay here, they're going to know –" she began hastily, moving to get out of the bed.

"Don't worry about the gala, Christine. You need to rest," Erik insisted, pulling her back against his chest.

"What about Raoul? He can't come here and if I don't go home he'll know what happened!" she objected, struggling against his hold on her arms.

"Christine, you just had a baby. Take it easy!" Nadir said, moving to the side of the bed so she couldn't escape. "We're taking care of it. Raoul will probably come here looking for you, and we can't stop that. But we've spoken to the doctors and nurses, and they won't say anything to him," he assured her, taking a seat on the side of the bed. "I'll be here, and so will Madame Giry. All he needs to know is that you have a concussion, and need to stay here for a few days rest, which isn't a lie. We just don't mention the baby, and I'm afraid..." he sighed, and stopped himself, looking helplessly to Erik.

"Christine... You – You can't see him for a while. We need to be sure of where Raoul is so he doesn't barge in and see the baby," he explained carefully. Christine turned her head sharply, her eyes wide in disbelief.

"But I – I'm his _mother_! I want to see him!" she demanded angrily. Erik pressed his lips against her shoulder.

"I know you do, and I'm so sorry, but it won't be for long. We just need to know where Raoul and Philippe are first," he said, his tone loaded with regret.

"Erik, I'm sick of all of this, I don't care about them now, I just want to go back to the castle!" she insisted, tears forming in her eyes.

"Christine, don't you understand? Now it's ten times more important to finish this, because you have a son to take care of, and you three can't go into hiding for the rest of your lives," Nadir said softly, taking Christine's hand in his and running his thumb over her palm to calm her. Her breathing slowed, and although tears were now slipping down her cheeks, she gave a shaky nod.

"I – I understand, but I... I still just want to go home," she murmured weakly. He gave her a comforting smile.

"I know. You just have to be patient."

"Two weeks, Christine, and I promise you, we'll be heading back to the castle with our son. You know how much I value my promises," Erik assured her, with a wry smile. Christine gave a small laugh, and nodded, wiping away her tears.

"Just... don't kidnap anyone or pretend to be dead for months, please?" she requested teasingly.

"Well, lets hope things don't get that serious," Nadir smiled. "I won't bore you with practical advice. Madame Giry and I will both be here as long as you need us, so for now all I can say is congratulations," he said finally.

"Thank you, Nadir," she whispered, squeezing his hand tenderly. He raised it to his lips, and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles before sitting it beside her on the bed.

"You need to sleep. Erik, come on. We have to let her rest," he instructed. Erik looked rather put-out at the suggestion, but reluctantly slid off the bed.

"I'll be here when you wake up, but we have a few things to take care of right now," he murmured, leaning down and kissing her tenderly. "And I'm incredibly, unbelievably proud of you. Not just for giving me a son, but for being my Aminta. You were wonderful. Try to get some sleep," he smiled, before pressing his lips to her forehead and following Nadir from the room.

"Tired?" Nadir questioned when they were in the hall. Erik glanced back into the room one last time, before turning to his friend with steely eyes.

"I'll sleep when my wife and child are safe, but right now, we have work to do."

**A/N: Sorry about the cliffie last chapter. So, in my defence for any peeps out there who've had babies and want to inform me that it's NOTHING like this and that I'm all wrong, remember that this is fanfiction, and I'm no doctor. After consultation with my toy unicorns Proserpine, Reginald and Stephen, we have decided that this is almost realistic. We think. Not a hundred per cent, but I think it's kind of believable... well, as believable as the rest of the story is, which is very little. But all the same, any complaints will be forwarded straight to Reginald (Proserpine doesn't deal well with criticism and I love Stephen too much to upset him, so Reginald shall bear the brunt of it), and he will get back to you as soon as possible.**

**Sorry, I'm in a bit of a silly mood this evening, if you couldn't tell :D**


	44. The Revenge

"Are you satisfied, messieurs?" André barked as he stormed out of box five with a scowl on his face.

"How is the officer?" Philippe asked calmly.

"We're calling an ambulance. Do you realise how much it's going to cost to cover this up?" Firmin questioned anxiously, following his partner out of the box, the door closing on the rabble and concerned conversation of the _gendarmes_ and the pained groans of the officer who had been first in and now had a broken leg for his bravery.

"We'll cover the expense, monsieur," Philippe waved him off. "Now, I think we need to rethink our approach. At least we know that there's something down there the Phantom doesn't want us to see," he smiled calmly.

"No man will go down there again, monsieur. We've had two injuries tonight, I think it's time we all went home and forgot all of this," André murmured darkly.

"Forget this? Monsieur, we can't simply walk out in the middle of the game," Philippe laughed, his musical voice soothing the concerns of the managers.

"Philippe, he's right. We should just go home now, I need to see that Christine is well," Raoul murmured nervously to his brother, but Philippe only shook his head.

"No. If the police won't go down there, then I'll find someone who will, or I'll just do it myself," he snapped.

"But Philippe, I must see her!" Raoul objected petulantly. Philippe groaned as he ran a hand through his blonde hair.

"Don't you see? We don't have time for this! We must do this _now_ while he's not here!" he growled angrily.

"Philippe! This is _not_ the way in! It's not what we're looking for! We'll never get down there alive!" Raoul insisted firmly. Philippe glared at his younger brother, and then made a sort of scoffing noise from the back of his throat that was half-way between disgust and frustration.

"Fine. If none of you watch to catch this man, then fine! We'll leave it, and come back another day when he's lurking through the passageways himself," he spat. "In fact, why don't we just forget all of this? He can continue stealing your money and your women," he glared at Raoul, whose cheeks flushed pink, "I don't care! He's your problem, not mine," he added before turning and storming down the hallway. Raoul and the managers followed him swiftly as he headed for the grand staircase.

"Monsieur Comte! Please, surely there is something else we can do to catch him!" Firmin called.

"Yes, you mustn't simply walk away from –"

The party stopped at the top of the staircase, staring down at the figure at the bottom in complete surprise. Madame Giry stared up at them with a curious frown.

"Madame Giry? What are you doing here? How is Christine?" Raoul demanded, immediately hurrying down the stairs and breaking the silence.

"She's in the hospital," she answered crisply, sending an icy glare up to Philippe, who didn't react.

"What? She's – is she alright? How serious is it?" Raoul exclaimed in horror.

"Will she be able to perform at the gala?" André questioned, a sudden concerned frown taking over his expression.

"No, I do not believe so. Her fall was a little more serious than we had expected, so she'll be recovering for several days," was her clipped response.

"Madame, what are you doing here?" Philippe asked suddenly, making his slow descent down the stairs with his eyes fixed on the woman standing in the foyer. She raised her chin in subtle defiance.

"In my rush to see to Christine, I didn't have time to get my things. I stopped when I could see the theatre lights were still on and I could hear voices," she answered simply, before raising a brow. "And you, Comte de Chagny? What is your business here?" she asked with growing suspicion. Philippe smiled.

"We were here investigating Mademoiselle Daaé's fall. We felt the circumstances were slightly suspicious. It wouldn't do for this 'Phantom' character everyone is raving on about to be attacking innocent sopranos," he answered in his soft, charming tones.

"I think there's another, far more sinister monster on the loose, monsieur," she replied coolly. For a split second Philippe's eyes flashed dangerously, but then the spark of anger was gone, replaced by his usual façade of charm.

"Will you take me to Christine? I need to see her," Raoul begged Madame Giry. She broke her eye contact with Philippe, and turned to him with a stern frown.

"She's sleeping. You may come in the morning," she informed him, before nodding to those assembled and moving off to collect her things from her office.

"That's rather strange. Isn't it a bit much that she spends a few days in the hospital?" André commented with surprise.

"You're right, monsieur," Philippe murmured thoughtfully.

There couldn't be another reason for Christine to be in the hospital, could there?

"Raoul, I think Ana and I shall accompany you to the hospital tomorrow morning," Philippe announced, glancing to his brother, who was looking rather strained.

He was going to find out what was going on.

* * *

"You know, when Christine told me about you I didn't think I'd be able to meet you so soon," Ana commented thoughtfully, wincing slightly as Erik applied the serum to her forehead. "And this won't scar?" she asked anxiously when he didn't respond.

"No, it will stop stinging in a few seconds, and it should wear off in a few days, it has the same colouration process as a real bruise," he answered, his voice sounding distracted as he fixed his attention on marking her face.

"I'm very sorry about this. I tried to stop him, but he gets these mad ideas in his head and there's nothing I can do," Nadir sighed, apologising to the young woman in English.

"That's alright, anything to get back at my husband," she hummed lightly. "So do you need to break the skin now?" she questioned. Erik closed his bottles and slid them back into the small wooden box he had brought.

"I would like to. It shouldn't hurt much, but if you'd rather not I can understand," he assured her, sitting back on the plush chair of Philippe de Chagny's own front parlour.

"You can do what you want, I've had three children. I have a very high pain threshold," she smiled, peering at her reflection in the small hand mirror Erik had provided. "Christine is lucky she only had to have a caesarean, but I've heard the recovery can be difficult. I hope she's well enough to sing at the gala, even postponed it might be a bit soon," she commented. "You've done an excellent job, it looks so real!" she exclaimed, clearly very impressed.

"Mm, I've been doing this sort of thing for years. I have all sorts of creams and oils for anything you can think of," he replied, digging through his box for his next set of instruments.

"Do you have anything for scarring? Stretch marks and such?" she asked curiously. He nodded, pulling forth a small bottle of orange liquid.

"This is very strong, but it works quite well. My mask used to be a lot larger before I developed this," he answered, gesturing to his face with a wry grimace. She smiled and nodded.

"Thank you. You're just as she described you," she commented, as Erik chuckled.

"She must have been in a good mood. When she's angry I'm apparently all sorts of horrid things," he said dryly. Ana rolled her eyes.

"She loves you to death, though. She said you were very helpful and caring beneath all your masks," she stated, and Nadir gave a small chuckle.

"Don't tell him that, he likes to think people are frightened of him," he sniggered. Erik rolled his eyes as he pulled out a candle from his box and lighted it.

"We need to hurry, I want to be well away before your husband gets back," he muttered, casting a nervous glance to the clock on the wall.

"He won't be back till late. He's planning on raiding your lair tonight," she warned. He smiled, and nodded as he ran a scalpel through the flame to disinfect it.

"He can try, but unless he wants to make you a widow I don't think he'll get very far."

"I know it sounds terrible, but sometimes I wish I were a widow," she sighed sadly, lying back on the settee with her head on the armrest. "That's why I want something to fade my scars. He hits me sometimes," she explained, her voice pained and hinted with regret.

"Leave him, then," Erik shrugged, before taking the scalpel and moving to Ana's side.

"It's not so easy. I don't have anything outside of this marriage," she laughed, and then gave a deep sigh.

"This will sting a little," Erik warned, before pressing the blade lightly to her forehead. She hissed slightly, but in a moment he was done, and pressed a piece of gauze tightly to her forehead, before going back into his box. "This will make sure that it doesn't scar, but you can still use that bottle I gave to you. Just in case you're worried," he informed her, using an eye dropper to apply a small amount of pale green, foul smelling liquid to the open cut.

"No, it's Philippe who cares about appearances. He's very vain, you know," she replied, sitting up and holding the towel to her forehead.

"Sorry about this, Madame de Chagny. But Christine trusts you, and I want your husband to know that he will pay for what he did to my wife," he apologised, before cleaning off the scalpel. She smiled and nodded.

"That's alright, anything to upset him," she replied, placing one hand gently atop her belly. "I'll try to visit Christine as soon as I can. And hopefully keep Raoul away so she has a chance to see the baby."

"I'm sure she would appreciate that," Nadir smiled.

"Put these around the bathroom sink. We don't want him to realise there was no blood," Erik instructed, dampening several pieces of gauze and cloth with a red liquid that looked suspiciously like human blood.

"Put them there, just on the table. I hope they stain; it was a gift from his mother when she had this place decorated," she instructed with a scowl. "We should break a few things, don't you think? Make it look like there was a struggle," she suggested, looking around the room.

"I like the way you think," Erik smirked, closing up his box and strolling over to the window. "Do you mind if I –" he began, but she only nodded.

"Please, go ahead. I don't care."

He opened the window overlooking the balcony and broke one small glass pane from the outside, which would give an intruder enough room to open the door with the handle. He then upturned a small end table, tossed a cushion to the floor, and made sure to smear a little fake blood on the end of a candlestick they were claiming was the weapon, before dropping it on the floor near the table.

"Much better. He'll believe it, now," Ana beamed, before getting up and straightening her dress. "Lucky the au pair is with her boyfriend tonight, or we would have to convince her to tell the story, and she's a terrible liar," she commented brightly.

"And your children?"

"I'll speak to them. They love playing tricks on their father," she assured him. Erik took his box and nodded.

"Thank you. And you remember the message?" he questioned. She looked thoughtful.

"Yes, it was 'tell the Comte that I called his bluff, but he bet on the wrong hand'," she recited dutifully. Erik nodded.

"Good. Now, we must go. Thank you for your cooperation, Madame," he said finally.

"Not a problem. Give Christine my love," she smiled, before they slipped out of the parlour.

They left the apartment as carefully as they had entered it and Ana prepared her story of a masked madman breaking into the apartment and beating her over the head as payment for another's injury.

It might even make Philippe a little upset, she hoped.

* * *

Philippe wasn't in a good mood as he prepared to visit Christine that morning with his wife and brother. First of all, he hadn't been able to send anyone into the passageway that box five revealed, and it was obviously too dangerous to go in himself. He had then come home after that suspicious run-in with Madame Giry at the theatre to find that sometime during the evening, the Phantom himself had broken into his home and attacked his wife.

"You didn't need to come this morning," he murmured to Ana with genuine concern as they made their way up to the hospital's front office.

"I'm fine. I want to see Christine," she insisted calmly, pulling her coat around her frame a little tighter. Philippe sighed, and reached to grip her hand tightly. She blushed slightly at the contact.

"If he's hurt the child, I will kill him," he insisted firmly. She gave him a comforting smile.

"The baby is fine, I can feel him kicking now," she assured him. He nodded, and turned his head to glance back at Raoul.

"You got the room number from Madame Giry?" he questioned his younger brother.

"Yes, I have it here," he murmured, rifling through his pockets for the slip of paper while balancing a large bouquet of flowers and box of expensive chocolates in one hand. "Do you think she'll be upset that I didn't visit her last night?" he asked with a nervous frown.

"I'm sure she was sleeping, Raoul. She wouldn't have known, even if you were there," Ana called back as they walked through the doors of the front entrance. It took them a minute to find the room by looking at the hospital directory, and Raoul was nervously pacing whatever space he could in the small elevator as they waited to ascend to the correct floor.

"While we're here, perhaps you should have that looked at?" Philippe suggested to his wife, gesturing to the large purpling bruise and gash on her forehead, which she had covered with her blonde fringe.

"It's fine, Philippe. We're here for Christine," she insisted calmly, just as the doors opened, and Raoul practically pushed past everyone else in the elevator to get out.

"Calm down, Raoul. She's not going anywhere," Philippe growled, pulling his brother back by his coat. The trio walked calmly past the rooms until they finally found Christine's, and Raoul burst in immediately.

"Christine!" he cried out dramatically, throwing himself to her side.

She was awake, and had been speaking to that foreign fellow, Nadir Kahn. Philippe didn't like him at all; he knew full well that Kahn knew more than he was letting on. Madame Giry was sitting on the edge of Christine's bed with a concerned look on her face, but it was easy to see why if one glanced to Christine.

The bruise on her forehead was much larger than that on Ana's, and was a horrible reddish purple. There was also a large gash with stitches and butterfly clips, and the side of her face had several small scratches and was lightly bruised. She was connected to an IV and a machine that monitored her vital signs. She looked a lot thinner than he recalled, and a great deal paler, but it was perhaps her tired, worn and strained appearance that was the most concerning. He felt a moment of guilt flash through him, but it was gone when he saw his wife rush to Christine's side. It was one thing to injure a man's wife, but it was another to retaliate by injuring an innocent pregnant woman.

"Raoul," Christine said, giving a strained smile as he clutched her hands tightly and pressed his lips to her fingers.

"Oh, Christine, I'm so sorry I couldn't come earlier, are you alright? Do you need anything? What have the doctors said?" he demanded desperately.

"She has a concussion, Raoul, and they felt because of all the stress she's been under, it's best that she takes several days to rest here," Madame Giry said calmly.

"Don't worry, Christine, whoever did this to you will pay," Raoul insisted vehemently.

"I'm fine, Raoul, really. I'm just tired," she replied, before turning to Ana with concern. "What happened to you?" she demanded anxiously, her eyes tracing the mark on her forehead.

"Just a little fall, Christine, nothing to worry about," she assured, sharing a meaningful look with Nadir. He ducked his head to avoid his smirk being seen. Obviously Nadir hadn't explained his and Erik's night-time revenge. "I heard they're postponing the gala, the managers called Philippe this morning. At least you'll have plenty of time to recover," she smiled.

"Yes, I heard. I'm very grateful, I couldn't possibly perform in two days," she sighed, settling back into the bed with a slight wince.

"When will you be able to go home, Christine?" Philippe questioned politely. Nadir and Madame Giry turned to face him with scowls on their faces.

"About a week or so, they said," she answered. There was no judgement in her tone – Philippe was sure she didn't know his involvement in her injury.

"And you will move into my apartment. No arguments, Christine, you're staying with me," Raoul insisted firmly. Christine opened her mouth to object, but was silenced by Nadir's hand on her arm.

"What did he say?" Nadir questioned her with a frown. She glanced cautiously to Philippe.

"He said I must live with him when I'm discharged," she murmured. Nadir gave a slow nod.

"Tell him you'll think about it," he said finally, after a moment of pensive silence.

"Raoul, I... I'm going to think about it, but I don't know," she said to her supposed fiancé.

"I said no arguments, Christine. It's time someone finally looked after you properly," he objected, running his hand over her dark curls. "And I'm not leaving your bedside at all. I'll sleep on this chair until you can leave," he added firmly. Christine sighed, but she was too tired to really fight it.

"I think there might be too many people in this room," Madame Giry commented with an obvious frown, glancing to Philippe. He smiled politely.

"Of course, Madame. My wife and I simply wanted to see that Christine was alright, but we can give her some space, if need be," he assured her with his gentle voice. "We will come back soon, Christine. Try to get some rest," he instructed, stepping forwards and pressing a soft kiss to her brow. She blushed slightly at the contact, and mumbled a goodbye as he and Ana left the room.

"Philippe is right. You should sleep, you look exhausted," Raoul murmured with concern, gently rubbing his thumbs over her soft hands. She gave him a faint smile.

"I'm alright," she assured him, before glancing to Madame Giry. "I want to walk now. You said I should walk as soon as possible," she requested firmly. The woman smiled.

"Of course. Raoul, would you mind waiting outside with Nadir? Christine sustained a few small injuries during her fall, and it's important she starts to walk as early as she can to prevent any later strain," she explained to Raoul. He looked somewhat put out, but nodded, and reluctantly left the room with Nadir, who closed the door behind him.

"The fall... very bad?" Raoul questioned him with concern in his broken English. Nadir nodded.

"She hit her head, ah, _head_," he said, gesturing to his head, and then pointed to his thigh and chest. They had agreed that they would tell Raoul she had injured her hip and ribs in the fall, which would explain how her recovery would progress. Raoul paled in concern, but nodded.

"Hurt? Ah, pain?" he asked shakily. Nadir shrugged.

"Yes, a bit," he answered simply, before miming a needle to symbolise her pain medication. Raoul nodded in understanding.

"Erik. He... pained her. Erik," Raoul insisted firmly. Nadir shook his head.

"Philippe," was all he said, before taking a seat on the bench just outside of the room. Raoul stared at him in shock. Surely Nadir had simply misunderstood, Philippe wouldn't have... no. Never. He was wrong.

Raoul paced for a little while as they waited for Christine to finish her walk with Madame Giry. When they returned, Raoul was eager for some time alone with his fiancée, but Madame Giry insisted that she was there to help Christine use the bathroom and use her medical skills to monitor her recovery.

True to his word, Raoul stayed the night in the hospital. He called his housekeeper and instructed her to bring him a few necessities. He offered to have anything Christine could possibly want bought and delivered, but Nadir left the room suspiciously after receiving a text message, and came back a few minutes later with a bag of things for Christine.

"Your own pyjamas can be a great comfort sometimes, Christine," Madame Giry smiled as they unpacked the bag. She glanced with concern to Nadir, and said something in English that Raoul didn't understand. He replied distractedly as he placed several books on the bedside table by Christine's bed, but it was clear they were keeping something from him.

While Christine changed into her pyjamas and took another walk to the bathroom with Madame Giry, Raoul and Nadir went to the visitor's café downstairs to get some food, and Raoul attempted another awkward conversation with the Persian, but with no luck.

"Christine, is this the best room they have? I think we could find something a little nicer," Raoul commented with a slight frown when they returned, and he glanced around the ward which was being shared by three other women.

"She'll be moved tomorrow to a private room, Raoul. We've seen to it," Madame Giry insisted as she tucked Christine into her bed like a small child. "I've asked for them to add another sofa, if you really intend on sleeping here," she added with a doubtful glance. He nodded firmly.

"Yes, I do. I won't leave her," he assured, sitting on the edge of Christine's bed. She was drowsy due to her pain medication, and looked like a very small girl in her soft pink nightgown. It hurt him to see her in such a state.

"Christine, I have to go," Nadir murmured, moving to the side of the bed. She smiled up at him and rose slightly to give him a warm hug and return his affectionate kiss before sinking into the bed with a tired sigh. He exchanged a few words that Raoul couldn't make out with Madame Giry before he left the room, promising to return early the next morning.

"He isn't staying here?" Raoul questioned quietly as Christine began to sink into sleep. Madame Giry shook her head.

"No. He's no stranger to sleeping beside hospital beds, though. I wouldn't want him to have to do it again," she answered simply, smoothing back Christine's bed sheets. Raoul frowned in confusion.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"His son passed away several years ago. He was four years old and very sick. It hurts Nadir to be in a hospital, to see someone he loves so dearly ill," she explained, before she handed him a blanket from across the bed. "I'm afraid we must sleep here for tonight. The private room has sofas, but I wouldn't expect to get a lot of sleep," she sighed, before standing up. "I'm going to call my daughter to make sure she's alright, I'll be back in a moment," she stated, before slipping quietly out of the room.

Raoul sighed as he sunk into one of the chairs by Christine's bed, and placed the blanket over his lap. He watched her breathe and exhale slowly. He was asleep before Madame Giry returned.

Marie couldn't help but give a tiny smile when she stepped back into the room, lit only with the warm yellow glow on Christine's bedside table. She wasn't fond of Raoul, but his attention to Christine was rather endearing.

"Christine," she whispered to the young girl. Christine opened her eyes and made a strained smile when she saw the woman leaning over her side. "Erik and Nadir are with your son, they said he's doing very well. He should be able to go home in a few days," she murmured gently, in English, just in case Raoul was listening. Christine nodded.

"Good. How is Erik?" she yawned tiredly.

"He's well, he misses you. He sent his love," she informed her, smoothing back her dark hair. "You should rest now, Raoul and I are here. We'll see you in the morning," she smiled, pressing a soft kiss to her brow and letting her slip back into sleep.

She watched Raoul carefully, but he was clearly sleeping. She stayed vigil for a few more minutes, before she turned off the bedside lamp and leant her head against the end of Christine's bed, and was asleep in seconds.

**A/N: Not long now, folks. I must say, I'm looking forward to a bit of a break from uploading, as I really need to work on my manuscript, but this has been a fun fic. **

**Some people have been registering their dislike of Christine and Nadir's relationship. Well, I perhaps have a bit more of an open mind about love, but I do think it's entirely possible for someone to care for two people at once. Christine loves Erik more than anything else in the world, which makes her relationship with Nadir a lot more... detached. It's hard to explain. But Erik doesn't mind as much as he likes to pretend. And Nadir would never step in. Nadir is probably one of my favourite characters I've ever written, because to me he oozes calm and gentleness. He's sort of languid in his affection for Christine, and she treats it more like a crush. It's not the kind of love that Erik and Christine have for each other, so it doesn't threaten it. I think if I removed it from the story, that would take away from the overall depth of the plot. But I'm past the point of writing for reviews or for praise; I'm writing for myself. If you like the story, good. If you don't, then that's quite alright, I don't mind. **

**Oh, and the oil Erik gives to Ana is sort of real. I'm not sure if you have it outside of Australia, but there's an orange liquid called 'Bio-Oil' which fades scars. It's made from vitamin E, but what Erik gave Ana would be a much higher concentration, so it would work faster.**

**Anyhoo, I'm off to karaoke in the city tonight, so I just wanted to update this and then start glaring at my wardrobe, hoping it might suggest what to wear. If only I had a talking wardrobe like in Beauty & The Beast. Sigh, oh well, I'll probably pull out a crazy old Lolita dress and drunkenly sing the Sailor Moon theme song all night :D**

**-E.**


	45. The Chekhov Gun

Raoul, true to his word, stayed vigil by Christine for the remainder of her time in hospital, leaving only for a few minutes everyday to have a shower and change, during which time Christine practised walking around the private ward with Madame Giry or Nadir. It was impossible for Christine to see her son during this time, because Philippe and Ana also visited everyday, sometimes with their own children, and people from the theatre were constantly dropping in to say hello.

Christine had made the very difficult decision with Madame Giry and Nadir that she would not see Erik or the baby until she had left the hospital, but Raoul was not giving up on his decision that Christine would move in with him when she was discharged. After four days Madame Giry quietly informed her when Raoul was in the bathroom that her son, who still had no name, was now permitted to leave the hospital and go home with Erik. As she couldn't breastfeed him, and Erik had Nadir to help care for him, there was no reason why he should stay in the hospital with his mother, even though that thought almost killed Christine.

Christine hated being in the dark. Nadir and Madame Giry couldn't tell her much because someone was always by her bedside with concerned smiles and good intentions, even though she wished they would all go away so she could see her son for the first time. She didn't know what was going on with Erik and Philippe and the gala, even though guilt would flash in Nadir's eyes when he so much as glanced to her.

After ten days, Christine's stitches had dissolved and she had recovered from the surgery well enough to go home, and she was reluctantly taken to Raoul's luxurious apartment. Madame Giry did her best to convince him, but all she could manage was an agreement that she would stay with Christine to help her recovery further.

"You will be so happy here, Christine," Raoul gushed excitedly as he showed her into her room. It was very lovely, decorated in a flamboyant Rococo fashion, with a large bed that reminded her of her bed back in the castle, but it still seemed cold.

"And where is my bed?" Madame Giry demanded with a clipped voice, following Christine into the room behind Raoul.

"There's another guest room jut down the hall," Raoul replied sheepishly. Madame Giry shook her head.

"Well it's no use to me there. If you didn't have so much ridiculous furniture you could fit it in here, and I'll need someplace to sleep if you insist on keeping her here," she snapped. Raoul sighed, and left the room in search of a servant to assist him in moving the bed. "How are you feeling, Christine? Is the serum working?" she questioned her charge anxiously as Christine made her way to the sofa, and sat down tiredly.

"Mm, it is. It's taken a lot of the redness away already, and it doesn't feel like my organs are going to fall out when I stand up anymore," she smiled with a deep sigh.

"Your husband is quite the genius when it comes to creams and oils. I'm a doctor myself and I would rather use some of his treatments," she commented, immediately pulling down the bed covers and placing Christine's bag on the end of the bed. "And there are no more cramps?" she questioned attentively. Christine shook her head.

"No, not really. I'm just tired, and I want to see him, Madame Giry," she murmured sadly as the woman assisted her in getting up.

"You'll be able to see him soon, my dear. Do you need to use the bathroom, or would you rather sleep?"

"I can go to the bathroom myself, Madame Giry. I'll be alright, you get yourself settled in," she smiled, making her way to the ensuite carefully.

Madame Giry chuckled slightly. After ten days of people fussing over her continuously, Christine was growing tired of needing assistance in every aspect of her life. All she wanted now was to recover as soon as she could so she could see her son.

Hopefully, she wouldn't have to wait for much longer.

* * *

"Philippe? When are we going home?" Ana questioned, glancing up to watch her husband dress. They were about to go to Raoul's apartment to visit Christine and see how she was settling in.

"Soon, darling. After the gala," he replied almost boredly, straightening his tie.

"I think we should go home tomorrow. I don't want to have this baby in Paris," she insisted. He sighed.

"You won't. You're not due for another three weeks," he reminded her.

"But I can't fly anymore! We'll have to take the train down, and what if I go into labour on the train, Philippe? Every day we postpone this the more likely it is that I'm going to be giving birth in a carriage full of strangers!" she snapped. He gave another sigh.

"Only a few more days, Ana. And you've never been early, might I remind you. You probably won't have this baby for another month at least," he insisted, pulling on his coat. "Are you ready?" he demanded, glancing over her appearance. She sighed, and nodded, unsteadily rising to her feet. Her baby bump was very large now, and she could feel that familiar sense of restlessness rising in her the closer it got to her due date.

"You won't catch him. You might as well give up. She doesn't want to marry Raoul, anyway," she muttered bitterly beneath her breath.

Philippe stopped his movements, and turned to stare at his wife.

"What did you say?" he demanded suddenly. She looked up with a blush.

"I just said... that there's no point staying here, because you're not going to catch him," she repeated, her voice growing in frustration. "And what would happen if you did, anyway? Are you going to kill him? Do you think Christine would ever love a murderer, or marry a man whose brother killed the man she loved?" she demanded angrily.

"Ana... what makes you think that she loved him? I never said that to you," Philippe murmured darkly. She shifted slightly in sudden nervousness.

"Christine talks to me. She said she was in love with Erik before Raoul shot him. She might not know that he's alive, but _I_ do, and I know that she hasn't given up on his memory," she said, the lie coming easily to her tongue. Philippe's eyes darkened.

"And what makes you think she doesn't want to marry Raoul?" he asked calmly, taking one step forwards.

"He – He shot Erik. She can't forgive him for that," she stammered.

"Then why would she pretend to be engaged to him, hmm?" he asked dryly. "If she doesn't want to marry him, then I can only assume that she's trying to protect someone. And who could that possibly be?" he enquired, stepping forwards once more. Ana trembled as he moved.

"I – I don't know why she's pretending. She's confused," she muttered pathetically. Philippe stopped, and stared at her.

"Ana, you had better hope that this baby is not born for quite some time, because I will not punish a pregnant woman for her betrayal. But trust me, if I find out that you're keeping secrets from me as I suspect, then you _will_ be punished for it," he practically whispered, his musical voice now turned cold and harsh. She swallowed.

"I – I –"

"Get your things. We'll be late," he snapped, turning sharply and storming out of the room.

"Oh God," Ana murmured quietly. "Forgive me, Christine," she whispered to herself.

* * *

"Thank you, Meg. I should be home in a few days," Madame Giry smiled gratefully to her daughter as she took the bag of fresh clothes from her.

"Good. It's been almost two weeks, mère," Meg scowled, glancing bitterly to the bed where Christine lay sleeping. "She just hit her head. How serious can it be?" she muttered, crossing her arms against her chest.

"Oh, my darling," Madame Giry sighed sadly. "I know this is hard on you, but trust me, it will be over soon, and things will go back to how they were," she assured her, placing a comforting hand on Meg's shoulder.

"That's what you've been saying for months. I have to go," she snapped, turning heel and leaving her mother standing in the doorway of the bedroom she and Christine shared at Raoul's handsome Parisian apartment.

"Maybe you should go home. Meg must miss you," Christine muttered tiredly, sitting up with a yawn. Madame Giry turned back to her charge with a pained smile.

"I hardly recognise my own daughter now," she sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I had no idea I had spoilt her so. When my husband and I were divorcing, we both tried so hard to make sure she didn't feel guilty... Perhaps a little too hard," she smiled wryly. Christine nodded in understanding.

"She must be angry with me. I've been imposing on everyone for months," she murmured sadly. Madame Giry shook her head.

"No, you mustn't think that. We love you being here, all of us. Meg just needs to think of herself a little less," she assured her. "Now, do you feel up to dinner with Philippe and Ana this evening? Raoul said they'll be coming over," she questioned briskly, standing up and smoothing down her dress. Christine nodded, and sat up in bed.

"He's twelve days old today, Madame Giry. Twelve days," she murmured with a small frown. "It never seemed like a long time before. It feels like a lifetime now," she laughed bitterly, wiping away one of her stray tears.

"Christine, the gala is in two days. In two days you'll be able to leave this place for good, and you can make up for those twelve days a hundred-fold!" Madame Giry assured her, but in her heart she knew that those twelve days were so important to a mother. She couldn't imagine how horrible it must be for Christine, to be separated from her child in such a way.

"I just... I just want to see him, I suppose. And I – I miss Erik terribly," she sighed painfully, sliding over to the side of the bed. She was gaining strength quickly, and although she was still a little way off being back to her normal state of energy and health, she was doing very well.

"Do you need help dressing?" Madame Giry asked with concern as Christine made her way to the dressing room.

"No, I can manage. Thank you," she smiled, pulling forth a chic little black dress from the wardrobe, and then making her way across to the bathroom.

Christine was sick of living with Raoul. She was sick of staying in that little room and sleeping all day, she was sick of being restricted by her recovery process and she was sick of being separated from Erik and the baby. She saw Nadir every day, and he reported to her on her son's progress and sent her messages from Erik, but she knew she was being kept out of something. She could tell from the hushed conversations of Nadir and Madame Giry when they thought she was asleep.

Erik was planning something. The only question was _what_.

"So, the gala is in two days. Do you feel ready to perform, Christine?" Philippe questioned a little later that night over dinner in Raoul's luxurious apartment.

"I think so. I've been practising as much as I can, but most of it I could sing in my sleep, anyway," she answered politely, running her spoon slowly through her soup.

"What will you be performing?" he continued.

"Eh bien, Monsieur Piangi and I will be performing the two major duets from _Don Juan Triumphant_, 'Point of No Return' and 'Beneath a Moonless Sky', and then I'll be singing 'Love Never Dies' again from the opening gala," she answered, reaching for her glass of water.

"You must be relieved, to know that soon you will no longer have to sing Erik's songs," Philippe commented. Ana and Raoul both stared at him with slackened jaws, before turning to Christine with concern. She paled instantly.

"Relieved? Perhaps. He was... a brilliant composer. No one who has heard his music could deny that," she replied, carefully thinking over her words. "It's going to be hard. This year has been hard, and yes, a part of me wants to never sing another note again and forget all the pain music has caused me," she continued. Her words were not lies.

"But you're a star, Christine. In a few months you can come back to perform again, and your name will go down in history," Philippe smiled. She gave a slight shrug.

"Perhaps. I don't know if I'll want to come back to the theatre in a few months. We'll see," she answered simply.

She knew that Philippe was staring at her throughout the meal. She had the impression he knew something she didn't, but she had to resist the burning urge to just scream at him to tell her. After they finished, Ana hinted that she needed to speak to Christine alone, but it was almost impossible for them to be separated from Philippe and Raoul. It was almost as if Philippe was determined to keep them apart, and he finally announced that they would be leaving before the pair could so much as exchange greetings to each other.

"Well, Christine. I'm glad to see that you're recovering well," Philippe commented as he pulled on his coat at the end of the evening.

"Thank you, Philippe. You're very kind," she replied with a strained smile.

"Well, you're to be my new sister soon. In a few days we'll all be travelling back to Marseilles and all this can be put behind us," he rationalised. She managed a grimace and gave her goodbyes to the couple before he made her sick.

"Is Madame Giry back yet?" Raoul questioned her when his brother and Ana had finally left, and they were sitting alone in the parlour.

"No, she's still at her apartment. I think Meg needs her mother for a few hours," she answered simply, giving a tired yawn.

"Would you like a nightcap?" he offered, strolling over to the drinks cabinet where he kept his fine selection of alcohol.

"No, thank you. I'm fine."

"So have you started to pack yet? We'll be in Marseilles soon," he commented, pouring himself a drink.

"So that's it? We're just going to leave Paris the moment the gala is over?" she questioned with a slight frown, turning her head to face him. Raoul shrugged.

"I believe so. Philippe and I are making sure that no... bad memories will be following us," he explained with a wry smile, taking a sip of his whisky.

"What do you mean?" Christine demanded. He sighed, and took a seat on the armchair opposite her.

"Nothing, my love. Only that... I'm tired of being chased by ghosts. I want a fresh start," he insisted, running a tired hand through his blonde locks.

Christine regarded him with suspicion, but said nothing for long minutes as Raoul slowly sipped his whisky.

"You know, Raoul, I think it's about time you tell me what's going on," she stated. Raoul lowered his glass, and stared at her with a slightly pained expression.

"I can explain everything when we're in Marseilles, Christine," he assured her. She shook her head.

"No. I want to know what's happening _now_. I want to know why Philippe is here, I want to know what your business is with the managers, I want to know why someone tampered with that trapdoor and made me fall," she snapped.

"No one tampered with it, Christine. It was an accident."

"If that's what you want to believe, Raoul, then fine. But people are getting hurt by this," she snapped.

"Christine... I really can't explain. All I can say is that soon you will have nothing to worry about, you must believe me," he pleaded with her. She scoffed, and rolled her emerald eyes.

"Fine. Fine! If you can keep thinking that, then _fine_. I've had enough," she declared, rising to her feet and storming out of the room. She slammed the door to the guest bedroom shut behind her, and ignored Raoul when he knocked on the door.

She'd had enough. No one was telling her anything.

She'd just have to find out for herself.

* * *

Nadir had a bemused expression on his face when he returned to Erik's apartment after visiting Christine the next day.

"I think I should start teaching him the piano," Erik commented as he heard his friend enter the living room, where he was sitting on the sofa with his son sleeping against his chest. "I had him on my lap and I played a few melodies, he seemed interested," he added, not looking up to see the concerned look that Nadir was now sporting.

Nadir sat down heavily in the nearest armchair, leaning forwards and resting his head in his hands.

"How is she?" Erik asked with slight hesitation.

"Fine, she's well. She'll be able to perform tomorrow night," he sighed.

"Then why do you look so miserable?" Erik drawled. Nadir leant back in the chair.

"She's angry, Erik. She wants answers. She shouted at me and then started to cry; I think this is getting to be too much for her," he said, but Erik only bowed his head with guilt.

"I know. But what can I do? This is killing me, but... we don't have anymore options," he murmured, with one hand gently stroking back his son's soft tuft of hair.

"I think you need to speak to her. The rehearsal for the gala is this afternoon, Erik. You can't take the boy with you, but you could at least see her, I think she needs that," he insisted. Erik rolled his eyes.

"I'm ahead of you there, Daroga. I was already planning on going."

"Is everything ready?" Nadir asked carefully. Erik nodded.

"Just about. I need to make sure the Comte understands the arrangement, though," he shrugged, adjusting his son's blankets. "I could take him, though. She hasn't seen him yet, Daroga. If she could just _see_ Gustave for a moment, I know she would understand why things have to be done by secret," he insisted firmly. Nadir rolled his eyes.

"You have to stop calling him that name. What if Christine doesn't like it? You can't just pick a name and let that be it," he drawled.

"She'll like it."

"You're not taking him to the theatre, though," Nadir replied, his tone stern. "We're going to do this the way we planned, he'll be here with me until you get back, and then I'm driving you to the airport," he insisted firmly.

"It wouldn't hurt to bring him to the rehearsal, Daroga," Erik objected almost petulantly.

"Yes, it would. What if he starts to cry while you're hiding?"

"He doesn't cry. You'll have to think of another excuse," Erik threw back.

He was right, to a degree. Gustave had cried at the hospital and occasionally he still started to wail if he was hungry or needed changing, but he never cried while Erik held him, and all it took was a gentle hum or a soft lullaby for his screams to cease, no matter the situation. He was remarkably well-behaved.

"Those passageways are dangerous, particularly for a baby."

"I'll have him with me. It's not like I'm going to just leave him to fend for himself," Erik drawled boredly, rising from the sofa to put Gustave to bed. He returned a moment later and lay on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling.

"It's alright to miss her, you know. You can be upset," Nadir pointed out after a long silence. "Just because you're a father now doesn't mean you can't be in pain yourself."

"I can't stand being apart from her. She must hate me. I've kept her son from her for almost two weeks," he murmured quietly.

"But she understands it has to be this way. We all know that you have her best interests at heart," Nadir returned. Erik sighed, and then nodded.

"Yes, but... it doesn't mean I want it to be like this," he frowned. "This isn't how I pictured all of this turning out. I didn't think our first two weeks of parenthood would be separated," he muttered bitterly.

"Well you didn't have a lot of time to imagine," Nadir chuckled. Erik sent him a meaningful glance. "You... you imagined this before you knew?" he exclaimed. Erik shrugged.

"I suppose so. I thought about the future with her a great deal, and sometimes I did imagine that we would have children," he said simply. "But I thought it would be a long way away. She's barely eighteen, Daroga. I never thought this would happen while she's still a teenager."

Nadir couldn't think of anything to say in response. He simply nodded, and then rose to go make some tea.

"Ah, monsieur! What a surprise to see you here today," André beamed as he spotted Philippe walking across the foyer to the grand staircase when leaving his office.

"Yes. I thought it best I have another look at box five, monsieur," he replied distractedly.

"Would you like anyone to come with you? We could call some police in, if you would like," he offered eagerly, but Philippe only waved him off.

"No, I'm afraid this is one visit I would prefer to make unaccompanied," he answered with a polite smile, before hastening up the stairs and leaving the manager in his wake.

That night he had been plagued with a feeling of both dread and eagerness. He knew that Erik, or the Phantom, or whoever he was, would be at the dress rehearsal that day, and he had spent the morning deciding if he should go himself.

After hours of deliberation he had decided that he was running out of time to find a way into those secret passageways, and had made his way down to the theatre with haste. He was going to try box five once more and if he had no success there, he was going to meet a few contacts who might be able to assist him in flushing the Phantom out.

"I was wondering when you might turn up."

Philippe froze when he heard that voice. It was a deep, velvety, musical voice that was both gentle and sharp. It seemed to pierce his very heart with its weight, and for once he had an idea of how people reacted when they heard his own voice.

The curtains in box five were open, and a dark figure sat on one of the plush chairs, his legs outstretched, his eyes fixed on the stage, where people were shuffling around to prepare for the rehearsal that was going to start soon. Philippe had already determined why box five was of such importance, it was the only box where it was practically impossible to have a clear view of whoever was sitting in there from the rest of the audience or stage.

"You were expecting me?" Philippe questioned, slowly stepping into the box, the door closing behind him with a slight click. His eyes were glued to the back of the figure sitting down a few rows before him. He could see that the man was muscular even from beneath his black coat, and he had hair that was brushed back neatly, just passing his collar. As he approached he could glimpse the man's hands, perched gracefully on the armrest, with long, elegant fingers and skin that could not be fairly called light or dark.

"Of course I was. Don't deny that you wished to meet me," the man chuckled with his hypnotising, low voice. The closer Philippe approached the more he could see of the man's profile, until he finally spied the mask.

He had heard from his brother that this Phantom wore a mask, but it was another thing entirely to actually see it. It wasn't as big as he had supposed, but it _was_ as white as snow and moulded perfectly for his features. It was the only bit of white about the man's person; he wore all black with not a trace of colour. His eyes were quite surprising, a milky sort of blue that were just like his voice; calm but piercing like the sea, and also cool but burning like a storm. He had never believed that one's eyes could truly be the window of the soul and show all the wisdom of the years until he had seen those eyes. He was actually a very handsome man, which was surprising, and held himself like royalty.

Philippe was impressed, to say the least.

"Please, sit down. I take it you prefer this box too, after all the sneaking around you've been doing here," the man commented lightly, before finally turning to face him. Philippe was staring incredulously, not even noticing that his whole body trembled slightly. "You're wondering if this is a trick? It's not. I just want to talk – I have no intention of killing you, unless you cause a scene, and then I will be forced to do so," he said calmly, gesturing to the row he was seated on.

Philippe carefully sat down a few seats away from him, still staring in disbelief as the man smirked slightly.

"My name is Erik, Comte de Chagny. Not the 'Phantom of the Opera' or the 'Opera Ghost', just Erik," he introduced politely.

"Then you may call me Philippe, monsieur," he replied, slightly hoarsely, but he was doing his best to maintain his calm resolve.

"Good. Now, Philippe, can you offer me some explanation as to why you insist on making this opera house your business, when like your snivelling milksop of a brother, it has nothing to do with you?" he questioned lightly, but his words were loaded with sweet venom that almost made them seem casual. Philippe gave a faint smile.

"I'm acting in the interests of my younger brother, Erik, and he is in turn acting in the interests of your wife," he stated calmly.

Erik raised a brow.

"What makes you think she's my wife?"

"Don't worry, Raoul doesn't know. Well, he knows, but he doesn't believe it. He thinks our informant must be wrong, or that you tricked her into a wedding when she doesn't even know you exist," he assured him. "But I'm quite aware, monsieur, that you made Mademoiselle Daaé your wife, and it doesn't matter if _she's_ aware of it or not," he added.

"Well, if you look at the situation like that," Erik began thoughtfully, glancing out over the stage. "Not that I'm confirming or denying anything, I'm sure you can understand why I would have been upset to watch her performance being sabotaged and her life put in danger by some fool who thinks he can play with peoples' lives."

His voice was deadly calm, but when he turned to glance to Philippe, his expression was anything but. Philippe gave a strained smile to mask his fear.

"Oh, you can smile, monsieur, but this is certainly not a laughing manner," Erik muttered coolly, his eyes flashing darkly. "Because in all of these games that have been going on for the past few months, the unwritten rule was that Christine is _never_ to be harmed," he practically spat.

"You have no proof of anything," Philippe returned, leaning back in the chair and regarding Erik with a small smile. Erik started to chuckle.

"You assume that I require proof?" he exclaimed with great amusement. "To a man who lives within the law, perhaps. But there are no laws made by any politicians or kings that can govern me. I know what you did, and that's more than enough for me," he continued, the laughter now gone from his voice.

"Well you're hardly innocent. You attacked my wife, my _pregnant_ wife. Those are not the actions of a gentleman," Philippe returned, his voice growing strained with anger and fear.

"I'm not a gentleman."

There was something very blank and pointed about those words that stopped Philippe in his tracks.

"You know, Comte, I think we have a great deal in common," Erik began, tapping the armrest thoughtfully. "We both possess gifts. However, I doubt yours has developed well enough for you to calmly convince a man to jump from this box and have him fall willingly to his own death," he said wryly, sharing a small glance to Philippe.

"That's not possible. Man's desire to survive is –"

"Mm. I know all about that, monsieur," he interrupted dryly. "But this is beside the point. You and I both have a love of beautiful things, Comte. I've noticed that about you; your beautiful clothes and your beautiful home and your beautiful wife... how is Ana, by the way?" he asked almost boredly. Philippe was practically seething with rage.

"She's fine, no thanks to you," he growled darkly.

"Oh, I believe her quick recovery_ is_ thanks to me, Comte," Erik smirked, before turning back to the stage. "See, I'm also very devoted to beauty. But unlike you, monsieur, I can see beyond the aesthetics. Do you think you could love your wife or children, or even _yourself_ if they weren't beautiful?" he questioned airily.

Philippe didn't even think over the question, because he knew the answer to it. He had known all along.

"Whereas I, having spent my life painfully aware of the importance mankind places on aesthetics, can look past that. I can love for a different kind of beauty, monsieur, that you will never know," he continued, his voice now painfully serious.

"What do you know of love? I know about you, I know who you are," Philippe spat, now angered by those questions and statements that struck too close to home. "You're a gypsy boy, a former stagehand who exploited the former manager for years and forced him to produce your satanic operas. You found a girl, a _child_, and decided you would feed off her talent and then force her to be your wife," he practically growled. "What do you know of love? You're a ghost, a phantom. Phantoms don't love, _men_ love. You just feed."

Erik surprised him by giving a deep chuckle of genuine amusement.

"Is that what you really think? That I don't love Christine? That I just soak up her talent and live some sort of half-life in the shadows?" he questioned with slight surprise. "No, monsieur. That is not my life. That's yours," he remarked airily. His casual sense of ease only served to inflame Philippe's anger.

"You know, I never cared about the girl before, she didn't matter. But now that I see her, now that I've met you, I feel so very sorry for her," he spat. Erik gave a faint smile and looked down at the stage. "And I'm determined to do whatever I can to ensure her safety. When this gala is over we will take her to Marseilles and she will marry my brother, and I hope that the Lord forgives you for all you've done," he continued darkly, but he hoped no such things. He had a suspicion Erik could see that.

"Yes, you _care_ because now that you've seen her, now that you've heard her sing, you realise how valuable she is. How _beautiful_ she is. How much she could be _worth_."

Philippe flinched slightly. He didn't like this man's ability to see right through to his true heart.

"But I tell you, she won't go with you and your brother. Perhaps I've tricked her, manipulated her delicate sensibilities, but the point remains that she is loyal to _me_," he murmured, turning his head to meet Philippe's eyes. "You can do what you will, but she won't follow you, and I can tell you from experience, she doesn't take well to being kidnapped," he warned.

"A bet, then," Philippe blurted out before he could really think of what to say.

Erik raised a brow, and smiled faintly.

"Call the stakes," he said, his voice quiet and calm but also deadly serious.

"Christine will choose. You or my brother," he began, his fists tightening as he spoke. "After the gala, if she wishes to leave with you we won't stop her. You can go, and we'll never come after you, she'll be yours."

"Excellent. I most certainly approve," Erik smiled, clapping his hands together happily.

"_But_, if she picks Raoul, then every single penny you have made from her or this theatre is paid in full to me, and you go. You disappear back to wherever you came from," he growled darkly. Erik chuckled.

"If she picks Raoul in all clear conscious, with no manipulation from you or anyone else, entirely of her own will, then I'll give you every single penny I _have_, and I can assure you, that's quite a considerable amount," he smiled. "In fact, if she picks Raoul, then I'll just kill myself, and since you seem to believe that we're married, all my money, my property, everything will go to her, and you can do what you want with it. _If_ she picks him."

Philippe couldn't help but giving an excited, greedy smirk. All that money, all the beautiful things he could have with such vast resources...

"But, she won't do that, so this is a purely theoretical discussion. She would have a lot more to lose than you know if she picked Raoul," he added, mindlessly tapping his fingers along the armrest in time with the orchestra down below.

"You know," Philippe began, trying to sound a great deal more confident than he really was. "You think you have the odds. You think you're in control. But I'll bet against the entire house that she will choose Raoul, when she can see you for who you truly are," he said darkly. Erik only continued to smile.

"Either way, devil take the hindmost," he shrugged, before turning back to Philippe. "I would advise you return to your wife now. She must be worried," he said, his tone laced with sarcasm.

Philippe rose from the chair, his body shaking with some sort of indescribable emotion. Was it fear? Was it excitement? He couldn't understand what it was, but he could sense the danger he was in.

"Just out of curiosity, are you at all musical, Comte?" Erik asked thoughtfully, a curious sense of interest in his eyes.

"What does this have to do with anything, monsieur?" he frowned with surprise. Erik simply stared at him. "I was told I had a certain gift when I was young, but I saw no point in it. I had not the patience for music, but my wife likes me to sing for her," he shrugged.

"And her?"

"She has a fine voice, but she never pursued it," he answered, feeling rather suspicious. "Why does this –"

"There but for the Grace of God, then," he smiled, before chuckling and shaking his head. "You may leave now. Tell your brother that I'll be watching to make sure no more foul-play arises, or it will be both your heads," he finished, before waving Philippe off.

"Good day, Erik," he murmured finally, before sweeping out of the room as quickly as he could.

He didn't breathe easily until he had left the theatre, and he was in such a hurry that he hadn't even noticed he'd gone the wrong way and was now at the back of the building, standing by the Rue Halévy, staring at the cars streaming past.

His mind was racing as he stood out there, trying to control his fear. He had just _spoken_ to the infamous Phantom of the Opera. He had just sat in the same box as him, casually conversing as if he were a normal man! But he wasn't a normal man, he was barely even a man. He couldn't believe it.

"Are you alright, monsieur?" came a questioning voice from behind him. He turned to see a man dressed in shabby clothes, probably a cleaner or something of the sort.

"Yes, I'm fine," he snapped, waving the man off.

"Pardon, monsieur, but are you Comte Philippe de Chagny?" the man questioned. Philippe glanced back at him with a raised brow and a clear frown.

"Yes, I am. What of it?" he demanded. The man looked rather awkward, shifting slightly, as if ashamed to be standing by such a man.

"I've heard you were looking for information about the Seine and this opera house, monsieur Comte," he stated nervously. Philippe's brows narrowed.

"Do you know anything about it?" he asked, his voice sharp. The man, but he was really more like a boy of about twenty years, with dark skin and glittering jade eyes.

"Well, yes, actually, monsieur. You see, I work in the sewers," he began, blushing with Philippe's sneer. "It's just... you know, I heard tell that you want to open the tunnel," he explained.

"What tunnel?"

"The one leading from the Seine to the catacombs beneath the theatre. Didn't you know about it?" he exclaimed with slight surprise. Philippe shook his head.

"There are catacombs beneath the theatre?" he questioned. The boy nodded.

"Yes, they've been there for centuries. But there's one right beneath the Seine, and we open the tunnel if there's a risk of flooding in the city," he said, his voice now lower. Philippe stepped forwards.

"And what would happen if this tunnel was opened?" he asked, his voice deadly serious. The boy looked increasingly uncomfortable, as if he really shouldn't be sharing such information.

"Well... I suppose that if it's true, and there are really all sorts of tunnels and passageways going through the theatre, then it would flood, sir, and everything down there would wash away into the catacombs. The pressure could even flood the whole theatre," he shrugged. Philippe smirked.

"And would it be possible for this tunnel to be opened?" he asked lightly. The boy ran a nervous hand through his hair.

"That's why I was looking for you, monsieur. You see, that's my sector, and I could open it for you," he explained. "But... it's just, I could get into a spot of trouble for it, and I'm not a rich man, monsieur," he murmured meaningfully. Philippe smirked.

"Of course. Your name, son?" he demanded.

"Darius, monsieur Comte."

"Darius, if you were able to open those tunnels for me on my cue tomorrow night, you will be handsomely reimbursed," he smiled, lowering his voice to a seductive, velvety tone. Darius nodded eagerly.

"Of course, monsieur, I could do this for you."

Philippe's fear instantly evaporated.

So, Christine would marry Raoul and leave Paris, or she and her precious Erik would be flushed out.

Things were looking up.

**A/N: My oh my, things aren't looking good, are they? Rather bleak at the moment. But have no fear; I'm a sucker for happy endings. **

**Or at least bittersweet ones... ;)**


	46. The Beginning of the End

"What on _earth_ are you doing?"

Ana stilled her rapid movements when she heard that familiar voice from behind her. She slowly turned, and dropped whatever clothing she had been frantically trying to stuff into her suitcase.

"I – I'm leaving," she stated, her voice weak and trembling, reflecting the sudden fear that was coursing through her body. She held her head up high, trying not to allow her bottom lip to shake as her resolve shook.

"What is the meaning of this?" Philippe hissed, crossing the room quickly and gripping her wrists. She cried out with pain. "You're _leaving_? Why?" he demanded angrily.

"B – Because I'm sick of watching you try to destroy lives!" she snapped, feeling hot tears sting her eyes. She tried to pull away, but he only tightened his grip.

"What are you talking about, woman?" he growled. She was now visibly shaking with fear.

"I... I know what you're planning. I know what you're trying to do with Christine, I know all about your evil schemes, and I want nothing to do with it!" she cried. Philippe's eyes darkened with anger.

"What do _you_ know of it?"

"I know enough!" she shouted, finally pulling away from him and stumbling back, holding tightly to her belly. "And I can't stand it anymore! I _hate_ you, do you hear? I hate everything you are and I'm getting out of here, away from _you_!" she continued, but Philippe only scoffed.

"What, and leave your precious children behind? Where will you go, Ana, hmm?" he asked faintly, with a smirk.

"I'm taking them with me, and I have a friend. We're going to go away and we'll finally be free," she said with growing conviction as she choked back her sobs. Philippe frowned.

"Which friend, Ana?"

"None of your business! I hope you have fun trying to burn down the theatre or sacrifice Christine or whatever it is you're doing, but I won't be here when it's done!" she cried triumphantly.

Philippe stepped forwards swiftly and once more captured her wrists, pressing her against the wall.

"Which friend, Ana?" he growled darkly. She glared at him, her jaw shaking but her resolve clear. He pulled at her arm, turning it away from her body until she cried out in pain. "_Which friend_, Ana?" he demanded loudly.

"Stop it! Please, God, stop!" she wailed, but he only pushed her arm back further, and with his other hand, dug his nails into her flesh until she screamed.

"Tell me!" he roared.

"Christine! Christine!" she screamed finally, tears streaming down her face and her expression twisted with pain. "Let me go! Please, I told you!" she begged desperately, but he did not loosen his hold.

"Where is Christine going, Ana?" he murmured darkly, but she shook her head, biting her lip against the pain. "Is she leaving with Erik? Is that it? Are they leaving together?" he demanded.

"Y – Yes!" she wailed, frantically trying to pull away as he pushed her arm back further.

"And what is Madame Giry and that foreigner trying to protect, Ana? It can't just be Erik. What is it? What are they keeping from us, what are they keeping from Christine?" he growled.

"No! I'll never tell you!" she shouted, before that cry turned into a blood-curdling scream when he pushed her arm back further than it could really go.

"Tell me!" he snarled, his voice making her tremble with fear. She screamed louder even still, but did not respond. It wasn't until he dug his nails deeper into her hand and twisted them that she finally gave him his response, and he released her, his body frozen in disbelief as she sunk weeping to the floor.

Their son. Their _son_. So, Erik and Christine had a son.

"Thank you, my dear. You've been very helpful," he smirked, glancing down to the sobbing mess on the floor that was his wife.

"Ph – Philippe, m – my water broke," she wept suddenly between her tears. His heart froze as it swum back to him, what he had done to his wife, his pregnant wife. He felt anger and shame burn through him, but he didn't have time to apologise before Agnes came scrambling in to find out why the mistress had screamed so.

"My wife is going into labour, Agnes. Fetch her things and bring them to me, you must look after the children tonight," he informed the au pair coolly, before picking up his wife and striding out of the room as she sobbed with the lingering pain of his torture.

He knew he should be focusing on his wife as he placed her in their car a few minutes later, but all he could think was his new intelligence.

So, Christine was a mother, who was separated from her child.

Her choice would suddenly be a much easier one.

* * *

"Christine? You don't have to do this, if you don't feel ready," Madame Giry said softly, reaching for the young woman's hand and giving it a tight squeeze. Christine managed a smile as she sat up and straightened her dress.

"I'm fine, Madame Giry. I just want to get tonight over and done with so we can just leave," she sighed, crossing the room to fetch her bag. "Have you heard from Erik? Do you know what he has planned?" she asked hopefully. Madame Giry shook her head sadly.

"No, I'm afraid not. All Nadir told me is that he has things under control," she shrugged. Christine gave a bitter sigh, and then nodded.

"Alright. I suppose I'll have to trust him," she murmured, gathering up her things in the beautiful baby bag her mother had sewn for Madame Giry. She glanced around the room with a frown. "This is the last I'm going to see of this horrid place," she said finally.

"Come, my child. Let's just focus on getting through tonight. In a few hours you'll be headed for the castle with Erik and your son. It's going to be over soon," she insisted gently. Christine smiled.

"Yes, I suppose I'm just being silly. Alright, let's go then," she decided, before following the older woman out of the room and into the front parlour, where Raoul and Meg were waiting from them.

"You look stunning, Christine," Raoul breathed, with a happy smile on his face, rising from his chair to go to her, and wrapped his arms lovingly around her frame.

"Thank you, Raoul," she said stiffly, before glancing to Meg and offering her a kind smile. "Good evening, Meg. Are you excited about tonight?" she asked pleasantly. Meg rolled her eyes.

"Not all of us got leading roles for tonight's gala, Christine," she drawled bitterly.

"_Meg_," Madame Giry scolded, but her daughter seemed to be paying no heed.

"Are all your things packed?" Raoul asked with concern, looking Christine up and down as if to make sure that she were in a fit state to perform and to travel.

"Yes, my bag is on my bed," she assured him, not mentioning that everything she wished to take with her was in the bag over her shoulder, and that she had no intention of coming back to Raoul's apartment to fetch her things before they flew down to Marseilles.

"Excellent. Well, we had best go, your audience awaits," he smiled, reaching for her arm.

Christine didn't see Meg's fiery glare over Raoul's shoulder as they headed out of the apartment, but if she had, there wouldn't have been much she could do; Christine was now Meg's greatest enemy, because it was Christine who was threatening the now hazy, obsessional dream of Meg's beautiful, glittering career with both Raoul and Erik by her side.

And Meg was determined to stop Christine before she could destroy that dream.

* * *

"Are you sure about all of this, Erik? You know what you're doing?" Nadir questioned his friend for the hundredth time that evening, as Erik fussed with Gustave's blankets and smoothed back his short, wispy hair.

"Of course I know what I'm doing," he returned sharply, before giving a soft smile as his son cooed and reached for his hand.

"He'll be fine, I'll take good care of him, and when you and Christine get here everything will be ready for us to leave," Nadir assured Erik. Erik didn't like leaving his son for very long at all, but they had all decided that it was best Nadir look after him for a few hours, rather than have him taken to the theatre.

"You'll be meeting your mother tonight, Gustave," Erik informed the baby, who was gurgling happily.

"Shouldn't you be going?" Nadir reminded him with a soft smile.

"Look after him, and if there are any problems, call me. We should be back at about eleven, assuming everything goes smoothly," he said, leaning over and pressing a short kiss to his son's forehead.

"Be careful, Erik. I'll never forgive you if you get yourself killed," Nadir said sternly, but Erik only chuckled, and nodded.

"Wish me luck, Daroga," he smiled, before turning heel and leaving the apartment before Nadir could even say goodbye.

"Gustave, let's just hope your papa's arrogance is well placed for once," he sighed, looking back down to the little one with a small smile.

Gustave only gurgled in agreement.

* * *

"Is everything in place, Darius?" Philippe questioned the young man as he stood by the back entrance to the theatre, hidden in the shadows.

"Yes, monsieur. All you need to do is call my number and I will open the gates," Darius nodded, casting a shifty glance around the street. "Are you sure about this, monsieur?" he asked finally, but Philippe only scoffed.

"Of course I am, son. Now, I have to go. Thank you for your cooperation, you will be paid the rest of the money later tonight," he said, straightening his dress coat.

Before Darius could speak again, Philippe had slipped back into the theatre, ending the discussion.

"There you are, Philippe! You've been impossible to reach these past few days!" Raoul huffed bitterly as he spotted his brother in the wings on his way from delivering Christine to her dressing room.

"You don't need to worry, Raoul. Everything is in place for tonight," he murmured quietly in response.

"Excellent! So what are we doing?" Raoul asked, his voice hushed as the two glanced around nervously.

"We're waiting for him to move first. But tonight we won't be sitting in a box, we're in the front row, at the end of the isle," he murmured.

"But why –"

"Raoul, don't question me. You must listen to everything I tell you this evening, and don't let your emotions get in the way of our objective. We want Christine to come with us and leave of her own will," he insisted firmly. Raoul rolled his eyes.

"If she had the choice, of _course_ she would pick me," he drawled. Inside Philippe was quite certain of this fact, but he didn't want to take any chances. So he had thought ahead, he just needed to get the timing right so he could fool the Phantom.

"Just do what I say tonight, and we will all be going to Marseilles tonight, free of this madman," he instructed. Raoul looked slightly worried, as if he wished to ask questions, but it was not the time or place. "Come then, we should have a word with the managers and then join the party," he said finally, before the two hurried out of the wings.

* * *

It truly was a wonderful party. The final gala had been marked with a fabulous masked ball before the performances would begin onstage. But the ballet corps were dressed in all their finery and dancing around the ballroom in a stunning display of black, silver and gold, and the orchestra was playing a vibrant selection of instrumental pieces from the opera. All of Paris' finest were assembled there, dancing and laughing and generally engaging in the ridiculous spectacle.

All was going to plan, except for one small detail. The entire room was buzzing with the news; an announcement was to be made when the performances had finished. Each guest knew this because somehow, instead of the programmes for the evening's entertainment being mailed to every guest, there was a beautifully printed card with a mask seal.

"How on _earth_ did he pull this off?" André exclaimed, practically tearing out his hair as he paced the office.

"He must have stolen the guest list. But whatever could he be announcing?" Firmin huffed anxiously as he peered at the note. "'_Dear esteemed guest, this letter is a confirmation of your attendance for Opera Populaire's Masked Gala at the Palais Garnier_'," he began, reading out the letter. "Do you think he would have sent these out before we had to push the date back? He's put tonight's date on it," he muttered thoughtfully.

"I don't _care_ when he was planning on sending them out!" André growled furiously.

"'_An announcement will be made at the end of performances to mark the new season and the future of the theatre's creative direction and casting'_," Firmin continued, sighing. "Well, perhaps he has a new opera?" he offered weakly.

"The _nerve_ of him! The cheek! I will be _very_ grateful when the Comte has done away with him for good!" he cried furiously. Firmin cast an anxious glance around the office.

"André, please. He could hear," he murmured, but André didn't seem to care.

"He's constantly making out lives hell! Call the police, have them double the security for tonight, he won't be announcing _anything_!" he snapped furiously.

Reluctantly, Firmin let the note fall back on the desk and reached for the telephone. By the time the call had finished his partner had calmed down considerably, but he still appeared to be in an awful temper.

"We'll have him, André. And all of this will be over," he insisted, wishing he believed his own words.

"We should never have left the scrap metal business. When this is done, I'm going on a very _long_ holiday," he grumbled bitterly, before sighing. "Alright, we had best join the party. We'll think of something to announce later," he said finally, before the two left the office in silence.

* * *

"What a pretty rose," Capucine, Christine's makeup girl, commented as she spotted the beautiful red rose sitting on the vanity in Christine's dressing room. Christine smiled as she picked it up and ran the black ribbon tied around its stem through her soft fingers.

Christine wished she could have a minute alone to call for Erik, to see if he was there, watching her. But she knew that Erik might be somewhere else, looking after their son or setting things up so they could leave that night without disturbance. She couldn't really believe that in a few hours, all of that pain and torment from the last year would be over. They would be happier than they had even been when they were at the castle before, because now they would be married and they would have their son.

The past two weeks had been almost unbearable. She missed Erik terribly, and every day the reality that she was a mother was slipping further away from her. She started to doubt herself, and no matter how much Madame Giry comforted her, the only thing that could make things better was for her to be introduced to her son.

"Eh bien, Mademoiselle Daaé, what do you think the new announcement will be? I haven't heard anything about it yet," Capucine commented excitedly. Christine managed a faint smile.

"I'm not sure. Perhaps the new production?" she suggested, her voice sounding distant as she glanced around the room while Capucine fixed her hair. She was sure Erik was watching, she could practically _feel_ him. She just hoped he would be safe.

"Alright, mademoiselle, I think you're done!" Capucine beamed, before picking up the beautiful ivory ball gown Christine was to wear to the gala and hanging it up behind the dressing screen. "You must change now, mademoiselle, and I will do the fastenings," she instructed, shuffling her behind the screen.

Christine carefully began undressing, before she jumped suddenly with the sensation of a hand passing down her bare back. She turned and a large hand immediately covered her mouth and she was pressed into Erik's chest. Her eyes widened with surprise and she clutched tightly to him. He removed his hand and crushed his mouth fiercely against hers before she could speak, and then moved his hand back over her lips a moment later.

He sent her a warning glance when she tried to speak, and nudged towards the centre of the room where Capucine was waiting for Christine to finish dressing. Her shoulders sunk, and he only smiled at her disappointment. His lips curved in the same manner that they did when he was laughing, and he pressed them against her forehead, before mouthing 'I love you'.

She mouthed the same when he had moved his hand away, and they shared one more kiss, before Erik reluctantly slipped back into the wall with the false panel.

"Mademoiselle? Are you done?" Capucine questioned when Erik was gone. Christine sighed bitterly, and then continued changing.

She had wanted to ask him so many questions, but she supposed that would have to wait.

"Yes, Capucine. I'm ready," she smiled, walking out from behind the screen. Capucine beamed at the sight of her, and instantly hurried around to do the fastenings of the dress.

Christine stared at her reflection in the mirror. The dress was beautiful. The ivory made her skin look flawless and flattered her body very well, and the gold trimmings brought colour and detail to the design. Around her neck hung the gold chain she had been using to wear Erik' ring without any cause for alarm, but tonight she would wear his ring with pride. She was sick of hiding it.

"Playing dress ups, I see?" came a sharp and bitter voice from the doorway of the dressing room. Christine didn't scowl when she saw Carlotta, but she certainly wasn't looking forward to speaking with her. Carlotta had made it her mission of late to make Christine feel very unwelcome.

"Madame," Christine nodded, watching the older woman in the reflection of the large dressing mirror.

"Nervous, Christine?" she questioned with a cool smile that looked sinisterly animalistic.

"Not at all. I'm used to performing now," she answered simply, fixing up a few stray locks of hair that had fallen from her chignon.

"I meant about the announcement. Your _retirement_," Carlotta sneered. Christine hid her surprise well, and did not reply. "That's what it is, is it not? You'll be leaving the theatre to go marry the Vicomte and become a trophy wife who could not balance a husband and a career," she continued cruelly.

"Is that what you think? Well, if it pleases you," Christine smiled pleasantly in response, her voice airy as she put on her earrings to distract herself from the woman.

"It's what happens when young girls who can't handle the pressure are given the lead roles. They _crack_."

Christine bit her lip, willing herself not to lower herself to that level. But then she was reminded of all those months when she had shuffled around that woman's house, looking after her horrible children, working tirelessly to please her, only to receive cold words and abuse for her efforts.

"As opposed to middle-aged women refusing to leave with dignity, who _wrinkle_," she said coolly, finally deciding that she didn't care about being the bigger woman. Carlotta's face burned bright red and her eyes flashed darkly with anger.

"You little –"

"_Bravo_, Christine," came a chuckle from the doorway. Christine turned to see Philippe standing behind Carlotta with a smirk on his lips. "Madame, I think you've done enough intimidating for this evening. If you could please leave?" he requested, his voice calm and gentle. Carlotta glared back at Christine for a moment, before finally huffing and storming out of the room with a stream of foreign insults. "You too, mademoiselle," he murmured to Capucine, who bowed her head and immediately fled the room.

"Good evening, Philippe," Christine greeted him politely as she busied herself with her hair, even though there was nothing she could really do with it. She just wanted to be doing something with her hands, because Philippe sometimes frightened her, and it was best not to look intimidated.

"Good evening, Christine," he smiled, taking a seat on the elegant chaise, peering around the room curiously. "Are you nervous?" he asked her, his voice pleasant and curious. She managed a shrug.

"A little," she admitted. It was best not to lie, and she really was a bit nervous about what was to happen.

"I'm very relieved that all of this will be over soon. It has taken me away from my children, I've barely seen them these past few weeks," he sighed. "You can't imagine how horrible it is to be separated from your own children, Christine."

Christine winced at his words. They were striking at her very heart, making her ache for her son worse than ever.

"You know, it's quite likely that Erik will appear tonight," he said suddenly, interrupting her musings.

"What?" she exclaimed, hoping her surprise was convincing enough. "But he's not –"

"You and I both know that he's alive, Christine," he interrupted her, his tone slightly cooler than it had been before. He patted the place on the chaise behind him, and she obediently crossed over to sit beside him. "Now, my dear. I know that this past year must have been very hard for you," he began, reaching for her hands and holding them within his in some sort of fatherly motion. "And I know that not everything makes sense to you right now. But if Erik _does_ appear, he might try to take you away. And you mustn't let that happen, child. It's vital that you make the correct decision," he said firmly, his eyes locked onto hers.

Christine trembled slightly. What was he doing? What was he playing at?

"I know I'm frightening you, but... Christine, don't think that I don't care, but it all rests on you now," he added, startling her from her daze.

"I'm sorry, Philippe, but I really must finish getting ready. I trust you and Raoul to look after me, to keep me safe. I trust that I won't be put in a position where he might take me again."

Philippe raised a brow, and she could see the inner cogs of his mind moving as he considered something. He finally nodded, and released her hands.

"Very well. I'll leave you be. But remember, Christine," he said, rising from the chaise, his voice suddenly very deep and serious. "If you must choose, then there is only one way you can go. Or the consequences will be worse than you can imagine," he warned, before nodding, and slipping out of the room, Capucine shuffling in through the open door.

Christine stared at the place where Philippe had been sitting.

She had a feeling that his warnings and hints weren't purely theoretical.

She could only hope that Erik knew what he was doing.

* * *

Erik couldn't tell if he wanted to chuckle at Philippe's attempts to manipulate Christine, or if he should leap in and strangle him for touching Christine.

He watched Philippe make his subtle hints and requests to Christine from behind the mirror, his mind racing. Did he know about the baby? How could he? How could he possibly know about Gustave?

He pushed those thoughts from his head. He couldn't possibly have any idea about Gustave, unless...

Unless Ana had told him. But Ana hated him, Ana was going to leave Philippe and take her children with her, and they would all live at the castle, far away from that monster and his idiot brother!

Unless... unless Ana had told him by accident, or more likely, by torture. He shuddered at the thought, but he knew it was likely.

When he could be sure Christine was safe he hasted through the passageways, pulling out his mobile phone and calling Nadir to make sure Gustave was alright.

"He might know, Daroga. If anyone turns up, call me as soon as you can. He's not touching my son," he growled into the phone.

After Nadir had assured him that all was well and that Gustave was sleeping peacefully in his room, Erik finally hung up. He had work to do, and he couldn't waste any time theorising about what Philippe did or did not know.

Checking on Christine one more time, he then headed for the stage. He had been there yesterday, making a few little adjustments, but he needed to check that no one had interfered with his mechanisms. He inspected the ropes and chains connected to the chandelier carefully, but it was clear no one had touched them. He then headed beneath the stage and checked all the trapdoors, and reluctantly began the practise of removing many of the traps that would prevent a quick escape.

It didn't matter, because when they left the castle for Christine to begin singing again, they would probably go to a different theatre, but even so... it had been the work of many years to create such a labyrinth. It was dangerous, yes, but it had been home.

By the time he had finished he could already hear the movement of Paris' finest as they left the ballroom and headed up the grand staircase to the main auditorium. Smiling, he cast one last look over his domain.

In some ways, he would miss it.

But he had a new life now.

"Let my opera begin," he murmured to himself, before turning away from the lake and heading back up the passageway to the stage.

**A/N: Ah yes, well, we're very close now. Which is good, because I should be working on writing essays or manuscripts or whatever the hell it was that I was supposed to be writing; I can't even recall the details. This story is a distraction. However, so is real life. I'm currently waging guerrilla war against one of my siblings, which takes up a great deal of my time. But fear not, I shall be victorious. It's a territorial battle, and the stakes are too high. **

**I make it seem like I live with a band of cowboys and Indians or the Vietcong or something like that. Having five siblings and a random Mexican defacto brother in law in my house can sometimes dissolve into territorial battles, which is why I read 'The Art of War'. And I've been sharpening my negotiation skills with 'Boston Legal', too, so I think I'll win. **

**But if I don't update, then it probably means I was captured and you should report me as a Prisoner of War. I will send word to my unicorns if I'm in danger.**


	47. The Last Dance

Christine tried not to be disappointed. She really did. She tried not to let her heart sink when she heard Piangi sing the opening lines for 'Point of No Return', and then again for 'Beneath a Moonless Sky'.

She sung her heart out. She heard the audience coo and sigh and applaud, she watched grown men give her a standing ovation with tears in their eyes, but none of it mattered. She didn't care as André and Firmin narrated the major highlights of _Don Juan Triumphant_ and she wasn't listening when they spoke about the story of love and sacrifice. She needed to see Erik; she needed to know what he was planning.

"And of course, this opera has marked the début of our resident prodigy, Mademoiselle Christine Daaé," André's voice swum over the audience, who were listening to him avidly. Christine was standing in the wings with some of the other performers, who were nudging her and whispering words of congratulations and appreciation.

"This talented young woman became the youngest star this opera house has ever seen, taking the lead for _Don Juan Triumphant_ at the tender age of seventeen, with no professional musical training, but has stolen all our hearts," Firmin added, as the audience began to applaud.

"No professional musical training?" she scoffed beneath her breath. What _was_ Erik if not a professional?

"And despite the horrifying ordeal she underwent last year, she has faced this production with bravery and determination. We are all proud to have her with us, and we can only hope that after she has taken a little time off to be with her fiancé, she will return to this theatre and continue to dazzle us with her talent and skill," André declared, as the audience's applause grew louder.

"And here to serenade you all with her own composition, Mademoiselle Christine Daaé!" Firmin cried, as Christine took her cue and stepped out from the wings, the spotlight following her movements until she stood in the centre of the stage.

The accompaniment began, fuller and richer than before. Erik had been truly very impressed with her composition, but he had helped her make a few alterations that had truly made it a piece of beauty. She felt the strings practically swim around her as the audience grew silent.

"_Who knows when love begins?  
Who knows what makes it start?  
One day it's simply there, alive inside in your heart  
It slips into your thoughts, it infiltrates your soul,  
It takes you by surprise, then seizes full control..."_

Those words were so familiar to her, they spoke of the pain and heartbreak she had experienced when she had lost Erik, but something was different now. There was hope in there that had never been there before.

"_Try to deny it, and try to protest,  
But love won't let you go, once you've been possessed..._"

Just before she was about to go into the chorus, she felt it. She could feel his presence before she heard him sing, although she did not turn. No, she stood still as he walked up behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"_Love never dies, love never falters,  
Once it has spoken, love is yours  
Love never fades, love never alters,  
Hearts may get broken, love endures  
Hearts may get broken, love endures..._"

He sung it in a lower octave, but it was perfect. It complimented the song perfectly, and she had tears sparkling in her eyes that blinded her to the audience's confused expressions and the movement from the corners of the isles.

"_And soon as you submit, surrender flesh and bone,  
That love takes on a life much bigger than your own  
It uses you at whim and drives you to despair  
And forces you to feel more joy than you can bear  
Love gives you pleasure, and love brings you pain,  
And yet, when both are gone, love will still remain_..."

She turned to him as she sang, singing those words to as they had meant to be sung. Erik reached for her hands and harmonised on certain phrases, pride glimmering in his eyes.

"_Love never dies, love never falters,  
Once it has spoken, love is yours  
Love never fades, love never alters,  
Hearts may get broken, love endures  
Hearts may get broken, love endures..._"

She wanted to laugh and to cry and to hold him and to kiss him all at once when he sung back to her. She could hear movement on the wings, but nothing mattered, not when they were there, sharing that stage, singing that song, just like she knew he had dreamed. He _deserved_ to be on a stage, and it was so impossibly unfair for that right to be taken so cruelly from him.

"_Love never fades, love never alters,  
Hearts may get broken, love endures  
Hearts may get broken..."_

She replied with the same words that he had sung, and he slid one of his hands from hers to cup her cheek, and lovingly stroke away her dark curls as she tried not to cry before they sung the final chorus together.

"_Love never dies! Love will continue!  
Love keeps on beating when you're gone!  
Love never dies once it is in you!  
Life may be fleeting, love lives on,  
Life may be fleeting, love lives on!"_

He sang those words deeply to compliment her high notes, and somehow, although they had never performed it together as a duet, it _worked_ so perfectly that she couldn't help but wonder if he had helped her make those changes to the score simply so they could sing it together. But she didn't care, because the point was that in that moment, they were invincible.

And then the music ended, and the audience started to applaud. A slight flush overcame Erik's unmasked cheek as he turned to the audience, and flickers of a smile played on his lips. In that moment, Christine could see the portrait of a man who had been denied the one pleasure that formed his entire being. He worked at his music selflessly, but to be applauded for it... that was something else entirely. She knew that no words could ever explain what it meant to him to be appreciated for his gift.

"My dear ladies and gentlemen," he called in a booming voice that reverberated around the theatre walls as he took Christine's hand in his. He waited until the audience had fallen into silence before he continued to speak. "I thank you all for attending this evening's gala. My name is Erik Danté, and I am the composer of _Don Juan Triumphant_," he announced, and the audience immediately interrupted into a heavy applause.

"They love you," Christine whispered to him excitedly. He gave a low chuckle, and started to step backwards, slowly pulling Christine and the spotlight with him.

"You all received notification of an announcement that would be made this evening," he continued when the audience had finally stopped applauding. Christine glanced to the wings. She could see the managers, Raoul and Philippe, and several armed officers waiting in the darkness. "And I am not the kind of man to leave you in any suspense."

Christine rolled her eyes when he dramatically paused once more, and the audience waited in hushed silence.

"Last year, I gave you _Don Juan Triumphant_, and your new star, Christine Daaé. But this year, I shall be taking her back," he said, and the audience began to murmur with suspicion and disappointment. "The two fools who run this theatre will surely replace her with the aging, talentless soprano that has been disgracing every opera she has starred in for the past fifteen years, but she will return better than ever, and she will resume her rightful place," he announced as the whispers grew louder.

Christine could see Raoul in the wings, struggling to be held back by his brother and a police officer, but their hold on his wasn't enough, and Raoul burst forwards.

"Christine!" he cried, but Erik only wrapped an arm around Christine's waist and pressed her behind him, shielding her from Raoul.

"And this is the man who tried to kill me several months ago! The man who _shot_ me in front of this innocent young woman!" Erik called out, as the audience gasped. Raoul stopped suddenly, his face white. "They took her from me. They stole my Christine and brought her here, and if they have their way, they will take her from here once more and force her to marry this blundering idiot," he continued dramatically.

"Erik, please. Let's just leave," she murmured softly, as the stage filled with light. Philippe was now standing a few feet behind Raoul, who was staring at them in disbelief.

"Let go of her, Erik. She needs to choose without you," Philippe called out. Erik started to laugh.

"Do you really think that she could _ever_ choose your brother? Do you think my _wife_ will betray me?" he demanded, reaching for Christine's hand and holding it up, where her wedding ring glittered under the stage lights. The audience gasped once more, leaning forwards in their seats.

"Let go of her! She doesn't love you! You kidnapped her! You _raped_ her! You stole her away in the dead of night and you pretended to be a ghost so you could take advantage of her weak nerves!" Raoul cried out bitterly, tears now streaming down his face.

"Weak? You think Christine is _weak_?" he repeated, allowing Christine to stand by his side, her hand held in his. "She watched both her parents die and she didn't give up. She lost everything and didn't give up. She watched you _shoot_ me, she lived for months thinking I was dead, and she didn't give up," he growled, his voice both calm and filled with rage as he tightened his hold on her hand. "She had to pretend to love you to keep me safe, she had to live her life in secret and then she was attacked by your brother, and she _still_ didn't give up. She suffered what no woman should have to suffer to keep the people she loved safe, and you _honestly_ think that this girl, this _woman_ is weak enough to be taken advantage of by me or _anyone_ on this earth?" he roared, his voice reverberating around the theatre.

The audience was completely silent, as was Raoul, who was merely staring at Christine with confusion on his face.

"_That_, ladies and gentleman, is a weak man!" Erik cried out to the audience, pointing one long finger at Raoul with pure hatred in his eyes.

"Christine... Christine, I don't understand," Raoul murmured pitifully, looking to Christine with teary eyes.

For a moment she felt sorry for him. For a moment he was the handsome boy who had rescued her scarf from the shore, he was her friend who had worried for her so anxiously when she disappeared, and he was the young man who now loved her and wanted to make her his wife.

And then that boy was gone, replaced by the trembling, white-faced, pathetic monster who had shot Erik in front of her, who had watched an unarmed man fall to the floor, bleeding in a pool of his own blood. He was the man who had taken away the greatest happiness she had ever known, and who had expected her gratitude and her soul in exchange.

"I want to say I'm sorry, Raoul, but I'm not," was all she could think to say, her words cold and detached. Erik tightened his grip on her hand, and she turned to him with a soft smile. He raised her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to her fingers.

"Comte de Chagny, you've lost your bet. She chooses me," Erik declared, looking over Raoul's shoulder to see Philippe, staring between the two with narrowed eyes.

"She needs to make the decision away from you."

"Philippe, I chose Erik a long time ago, and my mind will never change," she snapped.

"It's over, messieurs. And we need to be going," Erik said finally, before he turned suddenly and pulled sharply at a rope that was hidden by the black curtains. There was a loud creak and a groan that filled the entire theatre, and the audience began to scream as the huge crystal chandelier that hung from the ceiling began to move.

"Erik, what did you –" Christine began, but she was silenced when Erik grabbed her wrist and sharply pulled her away from the centre of the stage. The screaming grew louder as the chandelier suddenly broke free of the chains holding it in place, and started to swing, heading directly for the stage.

She gasped as Erik suddenly gripped her body tightly, and the ground fell out from beneath them. A moment later they had landed on the soft crash mat beneath the trapdoor, with Erik cradling her body.

"Are you alright?" he demanded, lifting her off the mat and depositing her on the floor. It was so dark she could barely see a thing.

"I'm fine. I've missed you so much!" she cried, pulling him in for a tight embrace. He chuckled, and pulled her away.

"I've missed you too, but we need to be leaving, Christine," he hissed, before scrambling in his pockets and producing one of the electric globes he had made, and instantly wrapping the strap around her neck. "Stay with me. We're going to the lake, but we need to hurry," he instructed, as he tapped the globe until a bright blue light filled the room.

Before she had a chance to reply, they were flying down the passageways, Erik pulling her tightly behind him. They were running so quickly that everything was passing Christine in a haze of wood and stone and earth as they went deeper and deeper, much further than they had gone before.

"What about the traps?" she cried out suddenly, a terrible thought coming to her mind.

"I've disabled most of them so we could leave, but that means Raoul and Philippe could be following us!" he answered, not even turning his head to address her. They ran as fast as they could until they reached the first, 'false lake'. "Are you alright? I'm sorry, I know this is probably hurting you," he questioned anxiously, pulling off his shoes and picking her up and walking through the shallow water as quickly as he could, his voice echoing around the stone walls.

"I'm fine," she winced, but in truth, all that running really didn't feel good. "What about the baby? Is he alright? Where is he?" she demanded suddenly.

"He's fine, he's back at the apartment, the Daroga is looking after him," he assured her gently. "I called to warn him that Philippe might turn up. I think he knows about Gustave," he explained.

"Gustave?"

Even with the eerie blue light Christine could see Erik's slight blush.

"Yes, I... I named him," he murmured with a slight shrug, made difficult as he was carrying Christine in his arms. "We don't have to call him that, if you don't want. It's just... he didn't look like a Charles," he smiled. Christine's eyes were shining with tears.

"You would do that? You would name him after my father?" she whispered with surprise. She hadn't even remembered her father's middle name until he had said it just a moment ago.

"Yes, I thought it was fitting," he smiled. "I haven't spoken to the Daroga yet, but I thought... perhaps..." he trailed off.

"Gustave Nadir Danté?" she giggled. Erik grinned, and nodded. "I like it. It's lovely," she laughed.

"I'm glad you think so. You can name the next one, then," he said, just as they were nearing the end of the false lake.

"Next one?" she challenged with a raised brow. He smirked, and deposited her on the dry ground, before pulling his shoes back on again.

"There's going to be a 'next one', Christine. I'll need several more to have my own choir," he smirked. She sighed, and rolled her eyes, but she couldn't fight the smile on her lips.

"You can wait until I've met the first one before you start thinking of another," she laughed.

"Well, let's hurry up so you can see him," he smiled, gripping her hand once more and again pulling her quickly through the tunnels.

"Oh... Erik, that's..." she gasped, when they had ran for what felt like miles and were now standing at the edge of another lake, this one real. Over the glassy black water there was a small island which was beautifully furnished in almost exactly the same manner as Erik's bedroom back at the castle. Beautiful, masculine and intimidating.

"Come. We need to get across," he said, ignoring the boat sitting at the edge of the water and pulling her along to the side of a stone wall. Carefully she walked with her back against the wall along a small ledge, until he stepped into the water, which was now only up to his knees. He picked her up and walked across to the island, careful of his route before he finally deposited her on the ground.

"Erik, you're soaking wet," she murmured when he climbed out of the water, which had risen up to his thighs when they were crossing.

"Mm, occupational hazard," he commented thoughtfully.

"This is so beautiful," she said, looking around the room breathlessly, before turning back to her husband. "You need to change, you'll catch your death," she said sternly. He gave a wry chuckle.

"Wait here, I have a few things I need to fetch first, but you're safe now. They won't find us down here," he assured her, before pulling off his shoes and stepping through the room quickly. He grabbed a few things before he seemed to disappear by the swan bed on the other end of the island, where she doubted he would hear if she called out to him.

Christine sighed as she turned on the spot, looking around that glorious cavern. It was truly stunning, but she couldn't imagine how he lived with no light.

He had only been gone a few minutes when she suddenly heard something that was completely unexpected.

A baby's cries.

But Erik said Gustave was back at the apartment? What would he be doing down there?

She turned sharply when she heard it again, looking desperately around for some sort of indication. She frowned when she could see the strange flashing of a yellow torch across the water. Was it Nadir, bringing Gustave? What had happened?

The light got nearer, but by the time she realised Nadir wasn't in the boat it was too late to really run away.

"Christine, get in!" Raoul hissed when the boat that had been at the shore of the lake appeared on the edges of the island, being rowed by Raoul, while Philippe sat behind him.

"Christine, if you want to see your son, get in the boat, and say nothing," Philippe commanded, holding up a screaming, wailing white bundle that had been on his lap.

Christine stared at the baby with disbelief. She couldn't move or speak or do anything. She simply stared.

"If you come with us now, and say this was of your own free will, then nothing will happen to your son," he added warningly.

Christine looked from Philippe, who looked positively mad, to Raoul, who was still crying, and then to the baby, who was wailing away.

"That's not my son," she found herself murmuring, and then stepped back. "That's _not_ my son!" she cried out angrily. Raoul turned back to his brother.

"I told you she didn't have a child! I _told_ you she would never –"

"Christine, if you don't come with us _now_ then I will give the word to flood these tunnels, and you and Erik and your baby will die!" Philippe ordered, his tone growing in anger.

"But that is _not_ my son!" she insisted firmly. She didn't know how she knew it, but she did. That baby was not hers, it was not Erik's. Philippe glared at her, holding eye contact.

"I will throw him overboard," he threatened darkly.

"Go ahead, if you think you can stand to toss your own child into a lake," came a familiar, drawling voice from behind Christine. She turned gratefully to see Erik, now changed, with a bag swung over one shoulder, staring at the brothers with a cold expression. "Comte, I thought we had a gentleman's agreement that if Christine chose me, we were free to leave without you following us," he stated coolly.

"I'm not a gentleman," Philippe spat. Erik rolled his eyes.

"As you're threatening to throw your own child overboard for the sake of a little money, then I would say not," he replied dryly. There seemed to be a conflict of emotions playing over Philippe's face.

"But you two have a child!" he exploded finally. Erik smirked, and nodded.

"Yes, we do. We have a beautiful baby boy, and I love him more than you've ever loved anything in the world, Philippe," he said, almost jeeringly. Christine gripped his arm. She didn't like what was going on; she wanted to leave. "And do you know what? He's at home asleep right now. And very soon I'll take my wife and my son and we'll go back to the castle, but you won't follow us, because Christine chose _me_," he continued with a smirk.

"No! _No! _I don't believe you!" Raoul screamed, his face red and his eyes wide with disbelief.

"She was in the hospital for ten days, boy, and you never spoke to a doctor. It doesn't take ten days to recover from a concussion, but that's just about all the time you need to recover from a caesarean, in case you were wondering," Erik said pointedly.

"Erik, that's enough. Let's just go," Christine murmured, tugging on her husband's arm.

"No one is leaving here until she agrees to marry Raoul!" Philippe shouted, pulling out his mobile. "If I press just one little key, I have a man who will open the gate that stops the whole Seine from draining into this cavern, and anyone who isn't in a boat will _die_!" he cried furiously.

Erik stared at the phone with a frown.

"You're bluffing," he stated blankly, but Philippe only gave a bitter laugh.

"Do you know Darius? He works in the sewers, he was very helpful. Told me about the catacombs and the river, and for a few hundred euro he has no qualms about flooding this entire theatre!" he roared, his eyes now wild with anger. He seemed drunk on the power.

"Philippe! Don't be a fool!" Christine cried, her eyes trained on the bundle of blankets in his arm. That might not be her baby, but it was Ana's, and it was a child that didn't deserve to die at the hands of its deranged father.

"No! _No!_ I won't _lose_!" he growled. "Either you die here with him, or you come with us, and you marry my brother!" he demanded furiously. Christine turned to her husband, who gripped her hand tightly.

"I'm staying. I would gladly die for him and I know he would die for me. So you can do what you want, Philippe, because I've made my choice!" she cried out.

"Christine, how can you say that? Don't you remember what he did to you? He kidnapped you! He raped you!" Raoul wailed pleadingly.

"He gave me _life_, Raoul! And you know what? He never raped me. _I_ went to _him_, and I loved every second of it," she practically spat at him. "And when I kissed you? I imagined it was _him_!" she continued forcefully.

"But he's a monster! Look at his face!" he screamed. Christine turned back to Erik, and then reached for his mask, pulling it off without a word. She raised up on her toes and then kissed him passionately, running her hand along his disfigured skin.

When she pulled away, Raoul let out an angrily cry like a wounded animal, and snatched the phone off his brother, before pressing the 'call' button.

"Raoul, what have you done?" Philippe breathed incredulously, staring at the phone with wide, fearful eyes. They suddenly heard a lurch that sounded miles away, but echoed into the cavern. "Oh God. Raoul, I wasn't bluffing! You'll kill us all!" he cried, stumbling to his feet and clutching onto the baby.

"I – I didn't mean to!" Raoul stammered pathetically.

"There's a way out, get out of the boat!" Erik commanded, stepping past Christine and pulling Raoul out of the boat with little delicacy. He then tugged Philippe out, making sure not to harm the baby.

"What the hell are you –" Philippe began, but he was silenced by Erik.

"There's no time, come on! We need to get to the roof!" he cried, just as they heard another lurch, this time nearer, and the sound of rushing water.

It all happened in a flash. Erik grabbed Christine's arm and pulled her behind him as they dashed across the island, before picking her up and wading into the lake.

"Stay close behind, don't stray!" Erik called loudly, as the water got deeper. He just about tossed Christine up on a stone ledge, and then crawled up himself, and assisting Raoul and Philippe up. From there they hurried along the ledge, which was gently sloping upwards. "Give me the child, Philippe!" Erik roared, when Philippe almost fell into the water.

Reluctantly he passed the babe to Erik, who held it tightly against his chest, and then started to push at one of the stones. After the third push it gave a creak and slid out, splashing into the water which was now rising with rapid speed. From there he pulled out another stone, and another, and handed the baby and the bag he had been carrying to Christine.

"Crawl through, keep on going until you reach the wall," he instructed, and she nodded, before helping her up on the ledge. When she had disappeared into the makeshift tunnel, he continued pulling away at the stones as the water rose higher and higher. Raoul scrambled into the tunnel before Erik could finish, blabbering pathetically about how he didn't wish to die.

"If you're trying to kill me, Erik..." Philippe muttered warningly, as Erik crawled into the tunnel and reached out his hand.

"In front of my wife? Do you really think I would risk upsetting her for your sake?" he drawled, pulling him up into the tunnel, just as they heard a very loud crash from the cavern, and a huge wall of water came flooding in from one of the other entrances. "Hurry up, we don't have time!" he called out, before crawling hastily through the tunnel.

"Erik! I've reached the wall!" Christine called out, her voice echoing.

"The magnet in the front pocket of the bag! Run it along the third row from the bottom!" he replied, glancing behind him to check on Philippe.

"The water is coming!" Philippe cried out frantically.

"We'll be going up soon, just calm down," Erik snapped. "Do you have it?" he called out to his wife. He strained to hear a heavy sort of grinding sound, and he knew several stones were sliding away. "Boy! Make yourself useful and push against the wall!" he shouted to Raoul.

"I – It won't move!" Raoul wailed pathetically, and the baby started to wail again.

"Push _harder_!" Erik growled, just as he came up behind Raoul. He was pushing his body fruitlessly against a stone wall, while Christine sat beside him with the baby, the light from her globe illuminating what seemed like the end of the tunnel.

"I've got it!" Raoul exclaimed, as the wall finally gave way, to reveal what looked like the bottom of a well, with an iron ladder leaning up.

"Alright, Christine, I know this might seem cruel, but you need to put the baby in the bag," Erik instructed, removing anything sharp or metal from the bag he had given Christine, and she reluctantly placed the child in there carefully, before fixing it onto her chest. "Now you go first, and then Raoul," he said, turning back to check on Philippe.

"I'm going after Raoul!" Philippe insisted. Erik sighed.

"I have to go first, the tunnel isn't big enough for you to get past," he murmured apologetically. Philippe looked back at the tunnel opening warily.

"Then hurry up!" he growled angrily.

"I don't exactly want to sit around here either, Comte!" Erik snapped, shuffling through the tunnel and then groaning as he knocked his head on one of the ladder's steps, and started climbing. "Now hurry up, follow me," he instructed, pulling himself up.

But Philippe didn't reply.

"Comte! Philippe! Hurry up!" Erik snapped, halting his movements and looking down. Philippe seemed to have frozen, with his head turned.

"The water is coming," he murmured quietly, and a dull roaring started to fill the tunnel. Philippe turned to Erik with a wry smile. "You'd better climb."

"You're not getting out of this that easily!" Erik snapped, reaching down and grabbing Philippe's arm, trying to pull it up as he climbed, but Philippe refused to be of any assistance.

"Go! Just _go_!" Philippe cried, pushing Erik up sharply, just before his body was slammed against the stone wall by the sudden wave of water that was filling the tunnel. Erik groaned as he grabbed hold of the man's collar and started to climb as quickly as he could, but the water was filling up and Philippe clearly couldn't swim.

He stopped suddenly with an angry cry when something was resisting his pull. He tugged, but Philippe was stuck, and the water was rising as he spluttered and splashed.

"Erik! Hurry up!" he heard Christine cry out as he pulled at Philippe's body, which was still struggling desperately, even though the water had been above his head for almost a minute now, and was now rising to Erik's chest. There wasn't enough room in the tunnel for him to swim down and pull him up, but he tried, anyway, pulling at Philippe's torso in the vain hope that he might come loose from whatever he was caught on.

When he felt his chest tighten with a lack of air, Erik broke the surface to see a small circle of light, and his wife's face looking down at him pleadingly, holding the drowning man's child to her chest.

Before he could decide what he was going to do, Philippe's body stopped struggling.

"Come on! Come _on!_" Erik growled, pulling at it furiously, but the water was still rising, and Philippe wasn't budging. "Philippe, I'm sorry! I can't!" he cried out, feeling angry tears sting his eyes, before he finally resumed his climb up the tunnel.

A few minutes later, Christine pulled him dripping and sobbing up onto the solid ground, or rather, the rooftop of the opera house, with water splashing over the sides. He lay on the ground, literally sobbing and coughing up water, with hot, angry tears blinding him. Christine bent her body over his head, and smoothed back his wet hair, kissing his brow over and over again.

"I tried, I really tried," he sobbed pathetically into her skirt.

"I know, and I'm proud of you. There was nothing you could do," she murmured, wiping away her own tears. Erik started to sit up and coughed heavily, water and bile spilling out of his mouth and onto the cold concrete floor of the roof. Vaguely he heard her calling Madame Giry on her mobile and checking on the baby, but none of that was really translating to him. He rolled over with another series of coughs, to see Raoul standing by the manhole, which was spilling forth water every now and then, before it seemed to sink away, probably disappearing down some cavern deep below. That manhole was the only direct, airtight link from the lower tunnels to the roof; the pressure which sent the water up wasn't strong enough to last long.

"I'm sorry. I tried," Erik groaned, sitting up and wiping the water away from his eyes.

Raoul didn't seem to hear. He turned to the bag where the baby was lying, wailing furiously as Christine tried to explain to Madame Giry that even though the theatre was filling with water, she needed to come to the roof. He knelt down beside the bag, and stared at the child.

"Madame Giry is coming. She'll know what to do about... Philippe," Christine murmured, hanging up her phone and going to Erik's side. "Are you alright?" she asked him softly, smoothing back his damp hair. Erik nodded.

"I'm fine," he muttered weakly, before looking back to Raoul, who was now staring back into the manhole. "I tried, Raoul. I really did," he stated, feeling like he should say something, anything as explanation.

Raoul turned to him with a strange, vague sort of expression, before he reached into his coat pocket.

Christine didn't scream like she had when she saw the gun the last time, and Raoul's hand didn't tremble like it had before.

It was different this time, Erik decided, to be staring down the barrel of a gun. He hadn't thought it would be something anyone could ever get used to, but it wasn't anywhere near as alarming this time.

But it was different that time for other reasons, too, because when Raoul pulled the trigger, Erik hadn't had time to push Christine away, even though she certainly wasn't the intended target.

When all was silent and no one moved, Erik had figured that Raoul had missed. He had hoped. He had hoped desperately that he had missed, but when Christine trembled against him and he could feel a dampness growing at his chest, he knew that Raoul hadn't missed.

"Christine! _Christine_!" Erik screamed as she slid out of his grip and lay stretched across his lap, blood quickly staining her ivory gown. He heard the baby wailing and he heard Raoul running and he heard his own screaming, but none of that seemed real. He shook Christine and held to her tightly, but the blood kept on pouring out of her chest, and she wasn't moving.

"Raoul just dashed right past me on my way up! What on earth has – oh god. No. No, _no_!"

Erik didn't turn when he finally heard Madame Giry appear, because like the fact that tears were streaming down his cheeks and he was shaking with sobs, it was completely surreal to him.

Madame Giry pulled Christine's lifeless body from him with unknown force, and suddenly, Marie Giry the ballet master was gone, replaced by Doctor Madame Giry.

"My bag, Erik!" she demanded, gesturing to the black bag she had brought up with her but dropped by the stairs leading up to the roof. He stumbled over to it and then handed it to her immediately, and vaguely recalled calling for an ambulance on Christine's mobile phone, because his had died when he went underwater to try and save Philippe.

"Is she going to be alright?" Erik demanded, when his senses had come back to him.

"Did Raoul do this?" Madame Giry demanded, not even glancing to Erik as she pressed a bandage tightly over Christine's wound.

"Yes."

"Does he know where you live?"

"No, he –" Erik stopped himself, and turned back to the bag where Raoul had been staring at the baby. Or at least he had thought he was staring at the baby, because right next to the child there was a piece of paper sticking out. It was the deed to Erik's Paris apartment. He had collected anything valuable from the caverns while Christine was waiting for him, and he had always considered his lair the safest place. Until today, that was. But the deed had his address on it. "Yes, yes he does," he managed to choke out, but Gustave wasn't what he was concerned about at that moment, it was Christine.

"Come on, you need to help me carry her!" Madame Giry commanded, still holding the gauze tightly against Christine's chest. Erik grabbed the bag and the baby and passed it to her, before picking up Christine with one arm, the other holding the bandage against her wound.

Neither of them spoke as they hurried downstairs and rushed through the theatre, which was quickly being evacuated as water was gushing out from beneath the stage. They didn't even speak to Meg, who screamed when she saw Christine, and started babbling on about how she was sorry and how could they ever forgive her.

When they finally got out to the Rue Scribe, the ambulance was rolling up in wait for them.

"No, Erik, go check on your son! Meet me at the hospital when you know he's alright!" Madame Giry cried when he tried to join her in the ambulance. "Meg, you're coming with me, I need you to look after this baby," she instructed her daughter, who climbed up into the ambulance beside Christine's lifeless body and the paramedic.

"But I need to be with her!" Erik insisted through gritted teeth.

"Right now, Raoul is out there with a gun, and he just shot your wife! Make sure he hasn't gone anything to your son!" Madame Giry snapped, throwing him the keys to Nadir's car, which she had borrowed so she could travel between her apartment and Raoul's, before the doors to the ambulance were slammed shut.

Erik didn't waste any time, he raced across the street to where Nadir's car was parked, and a moment later he was screeching out onto the road and racing across the street with no consideration of any road laws.

Christine... Gustave... both of them were in danger. Both of them could be taken from him. In one night his family might disappear from right beneath his nose.

He didn't bother parking the car; he pulled it up onto the side of the road and then ran out into his building. The elevator was absolute torture, but the moment the doors opened he was racing down the hallway and pushing open his unlocked door.

Nadir was unconscious. He was slumped on the kitchen table with blood dripping from his forehead, but he was breathing. Erik didn't waste any time with him, although his heart ached to see one that he loved injured. He scrambled through to his bedroom, where he had placed a cot for Gustave so he could hear him cry at night.

The room was dark, that was the first thing he noticed, but the light of the full moon was coming in from the windows, bathing the room in an eerie blue glow.

And there was Raoul, seated on a chair in the corner, holding Gustave, his precious, beautiful little son in his arms, his face tear stricken.

"Give me the boy," Erik muttered darkly. Raoul looked up with a vague but pained expression.

"He looks a little like her," he said quietly, before lowering his head back to the baby when he started to cry. Erik glanced around the room frantically, but there were no signs of the gun. "You know, we used to be in love, she and I. We met when we were little, at the beach. We were in love," he continued, his voice rather toneless for a man who had just shot an innocent woman. "Is she alright?" he asked, looking back up to Erik.

"I don't know. But if she's not, Raoul, I'll kill you. I've killed before and I'll do it again," he swore vehemently. There was no doubt at the seriousness of his tone.

"You won't, because then you'll lose your son," he murmured quietly, gently rocking Gustave back and forth as he cried.

"I don't care. I'll gladly give him to someone else if it means you pay for what you've done," he swore, his whole body shaking. The reality was just hitting. Christine could be dying. She could be dead. Gone. Forever.

"You don't have to worry about that," Raoul sighed, gesturing towards the small table by Gustave's cot.

Erik recognised the bottle. Of course he did. It had come from his own kitchen, of course, where he kept the box for all his potions and serums and creams and powders. They were all clearly marked, too. He had been rather obvious with the labelling of that particular bottle, because he didn't want anyone drinking it by accident. So the skull and crossbones drawn on the label could not be mistaken.

"Oh god, what have you done?" he questioned, looking down to Gustave, who was now fidgeting and crying a more and more, his face turning an unpleasant shade of purple. "What have you done to my son?" he roared, leaping forwards, but Raoul only shied away.

"I still have the gun, you know. It's in my pocket," he snapped, halting Erik's movements.

"Please, Raoul. I can't lose them both, not tonight. You can't take both of them away from me," he begged, choking back tears. His hands shook, his legs shook, everything shook, and he felt more tears stinging at his eyes. It occurred to him that he wasn't even wearing his mask, but that didn't matter now.

"It's not fair. You did bad things and you get Christine and a son as a reward," Raoul insisted, he too now sobbing.

"I was cursed before I was even born, Raoul! I did bad things because I didn't know any better!" he cried out desperately as his son continued to wail. "But you've never faced what I had to go through, you were never tormented or raped or beaten, you weren't a travelling circus freak, you don't have to do terrible things!" he continued, taking a step forwards. Raoul didn't seem to notice. His features were starting to twist with what looked like pain.

"You're a monster. A beast. Why would she love you?" he growled bitterly.

"Because she changed me! I'm a different man, I'm a husband! I'm a _father_, and you can't take that from me!" he pleaded. "Please, give him to me, there might still be time!" he begged desperately.

"There's no time. It should be this way."

"No! _No_! I'm not going to let you do this!" Erik howled, lunging forwards and pulling Gustave from Raoul's arms. He checked his son's mouth for any trace of the poison, but there was nothing, and no scent on his breath. The moment that Gustave was in his father's arms he stopped crying, and his colour returned to normal.

"Did you think I – I poisoned him?" Raoul chuckled in surprise. Erik turned to see him slumped on the floor, looking very, _very_ pale, his body shaking but not with emotion. "I might have just killed the woman I love. I don't care about your son," he coughed out, taking a deep, rasping breath, as if he were running out.

"We can get you to a hospital," Erik said, when he was sure that Gustave was alright. Raoul shook his head.

"No. I don't want that," he spluttered, sinking down further to the floor.

Erik knew that it would be one minute more, maybe less, and there was no antidote. Even if there was, he wouldn't have given it to him.

He left the room with his son and returned to the kitchen, where Nadir seemed to be coming to. By the time Erik had explained what had happened and had returned to the bedroom, Raoul was dead.

"Come on, we need to see if Christine is alright," Nadir insisted, pulling at Erik when he stood wordlessly in the doorway to his bedroom. Erik nodded, and tried not to think as he gathered what Gustave would need to leave the house.

He would deal with Raoul's body later.

He had to see Christine.

**A/N: So the battle has been won.**

**For me, not for Erik and Christine. They're in deep doo-doo. Stay tuned to find out what happens! **

**Anyhoo, I won my guerrilla war. I am undefeated, and the land remains mine! Villagers all over the shire shall cheer and cry out in joy for this victory. **

**A few chapters back, some reviewers were asking about my unicorns. Proserpine was named after the Algernon Charles Swinburne poem 'The Garden of Proserpine', which is one of my favourites. Proserpine is one of the few... oddities which I have given a female name, regardless of gender. He is my special friend, my most beloved unicorn. **

**Also, Midnight asked how many hits I have on this. At the moment I believe the count is 50, 109. A few people have been expressing their dismay over the small amount of reviews this story has earned. Well, I really don't mind. Yes, I would like to hear more feedback about how you're enjoying the story and what you think I'm doing wrong/right, but at the end of the day, this is just practise for me. And I am grateful for all who review, regularly or not. You remind me why I'm doing this; to learn to be a better writer. **

**Anyhoo, I'm off to go celebrate my victory, I'll try not to leave you in suspense for too long... ;)**


	48. The First Meeting

When Meg ran out of the wings in search of her mother as water gushed into the hallways, she hadn't expected to find Erik.

And she certainly hadn't expected to see him running after her mother with Christine's lifeless body held in his hands, blood staining her beautiful ivory gown. She had forgotten what he looked like, to be honest. And she had never seen him without his mask.

But there clearly wasn't any time to gawp at Erik's face. She realised what must have happened, what she had done, and she instantly began babbling apologies that fell on deaf ears as her mother screamed commands to Erik, and before she knew it, there was a baby sitting in her arms and she was in the back of an ambulance.

"M – Mère, is she going to be alright?" Meg sobbed as her mother and the paramedic leant over Christine with worried expressions.

"I don't know," Marie replied shortly. Meg tried to fight tears but they came anyway. The best she could do was to distract herself with the little baby that she held, rocking it from side to side to calm the wails.

When they arrived at the hospital, everything was just a blurry haze for Meg, and she found herself standing in a waiting room with the baby as her mother disappeared with Christine and some other doctors. So she stood there silently, waiting until a nurse appeared with a sympathetic smile.

"Are you alright, mademoiselle? Is your baby alright?" she questioned softly. Meg opened her mouth to reply, but she couldn't what to say.

"She's fine."

Meg turned to see her mother walking swiftly to her, blood staining her tasteful black evening dress. "Would you be able to tell us if Ana de Chagny is here, please?" she requested of the nurse, who immediately scurried back to the front desk, clearly perturbed by Madame Giry's bloodstained hands.

"Yes, she's in the maternity ward, she's –" the nurse stopped. "Is that her baby? Her baby has gone missing. Is that it?" she exclaimed, staring at the child held in Meg's arms.

"Yes, I believe so. The father took it, but he's... I'm sure Madame de Chagny is missing her child," she murmured with a tired sigh.

And then Meg was alone again as her mother went with the nurse to take the baby back to its mother. She took a seat, suddenly aware that her whole body was shaking. Was Christine dead? Was it her fault? Did the information she gave to Raoul and Philippe have anything to do with it?

"Meg."

She didn't look up when she heard her mother again. She leant forwards, tears now streaming down her face, which turned into sobs when Marie sat down beside her, and placed her hand on her shoulder.

"Is she going to be alright?" she asked anxiously, choking back her tears.

"She's in surgery. I don't know what her chances are."

Meg gave a strained nod, and sat up, wiping away her tears.

"Who did it?" she asked, her voice weak and tremulous.

"Raoul did. And Philippe is dead," she said quietly. Meg's eyes widened in shock.

"Oh, but he's married! That – that baby was his!" she cried, covering her mouth with one shaking hand. Marie nodded sadly.

"Yes, and I've told his wife. But Philippe was a horrible, horrible man, and she will shed no tears," she assured, though her voice sounded pained to even say such a thing.

"A – And Erik? Where is he?" she murmured fearfully.

"Raoul ran away after shooting Christine. There's a chance he might be headed for Erik's apartment. Erik and Christine's son is there."

Meg let out a loud sob. Things just kept on getting worse and worse, and she was horrified to think that she'd had a hand in it.

Before Marie could comfort her daughter, however, two breathless gentlemen ran up to them, both their faces pale with fear.

"Marie, where is she? Is she alright?" Erik demanded, clutching a bundle of blankets to his chest. No, Meg realised, they weren't blankets. That was a baby.

"She's in surgery, Erik. All we can do is wait," she sighed. Erik lowered his eyes and stared at the floor in disbelief as Nadir clapped a hand against his shoulder. But Nadir looked like he was about to fall apart too.

"Can you check to see how it's going? Please?" Nadir requested, his voice hoarse and strained with the tears he was trying to keep at bay. Marie sighed, and then nodded, probably out of pity, rising from her chair and sweeping past them.

"Erik, I – I'm sorry," Meg stammered, staring up to him with teary eyes. He looked to her with a slight frown, his gaze unfocused.

"Meg. Meg Giry," he murmured quietly, and she nodded. "Why are _you_ sorry?" he questioned, his frown growing. Meg nervously wrung her hands together.

"I... I told Raoul about your marriage. And about box five. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she whimpered pathetically. Nadir shook his head.

"No, Meg. Don't be sorry, you couldn't have known this was going to happen," he assured. Nadir had always had a soft spot for her that had grown from his friendship with her mother.

"But I – I shouldn't have... I was just so angry that Christine was getting all the attention," she cried pathetically. She looked back to Erik, who was staring at her in disgust.

"Well I hope you're happy, Meganne Giry. I hope you're proud of what you've done," he spat, before turning away in a fit of angered energy, still clutching the baby tightly to his chest.

Meg wanted to go after him, to apologise, but a warning glance from Nadir told her not to. She sunk back into the uncomfortable waiting room chair with a sniffle and a whimper.

"I didn't know that this is what they were planning," she said, turning to Nadir, who was now sitting beside her with a heavy expression on his face.

"No one did. We didn't think they could do such a thing," he murmured, following Erik's pacing with his dark hazel eyes.

"What happens if Christine dies?" Meg asked fearfully. He winced at the very thought.

"Then... then Erik will kill himself," he replied after a short silence.

"But what about the baby?"

"Meg, it's not that he doesn't love Gustave. It's that he loves Christine so fiercely that he couldn't live without her," he sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. "But we mustn't think like that. Erik isn't the only person who couldn't bear to lose her," he murmured, holding his head in his hands and squeezing his eyes shut tightly.

Meg was silent as she watched Erik pace the length of the room and then turn, doing the same thing. There were many people in that room, some nursing what looked to be broken bones or cuts that would need stitches, some people were coughing and others were silent and waiting.

When her mother came back it was without news. Erik demanded every tiny piece of information from her, but there wasn't much she could really say. They just had to wait.

"I know, my darling," Marie sighed when Meg turned to her with a devastated expression. Beginning to sob, Meg crawled into her mother's lap and held to her tightly, like she did when she was a child.

She just hoped that she would be able to apologise to Christine for all the pain she had put her through.

* * *

When Christine was able to process conscious thought, the first thing that went through her mind was that someone was sitting on her chest, and had poked it very, very hard. She struggled against her lingering weariness when her body told her it was very important to be awake.

_I want to sleep_, she thought to herself. She wanted to stretch out and then fall back into slumber, before she realised that she couldn't actually move at all. She tried to experimentally roll over in bed, but nothing happened. She didn't even know how she knew it was a bed.

_Why can't I move?_ she thought to herself, wishing she could frown but not having the energy.

_Ah. That's it. I don't have any energy at all. That's why I can't move_.

With that taken care of, Christine decided that all she could really do was go to sleep. However, her body didn't want her to do that. Something was pressing on her mind, insisting that she really, really must wake up. It was very dire that she open her eyes.

_Why?_ she thought to herself. _I don't have anywhere I need to be, do I? So why I can't I just have a little nap?_

That settled, she began to drift off again.

_Wait!_ she thought suddenly, when that pressing sense of importance pressed down on her. It reminded her who she was. It reminded her that she was Christine, and that she was married to Erik and that she had a baby called Gustave who she hadn't met yet. _Is that it? I have to wake up to find Gustave?_

She strained to remember more. Why did she need to find him? Where was he? Was he in danger?

And then it came back to her very suddenly. The theatre, the roof, Philippe, Raoul, the gun... Erik...

Erik! She had to get to Erik, Raoul had a gun! She had to tell him to hide, because she couldn't bear to lose him again, and if Raoul killed him she would never forgive Erik for dying.

_I need to wake up_, she thought very firmly to herself. But it was different than just normal slumber. It was so much harder to get up.

She tried experimentally moving her fingers. Confident that this was possible, she moved them again, just a little, but every tiny movement meant so much.

She felt something grab her hands and hold them very tightly. She smiled. She could recognise Nadir's hands anywhere, they were so impossibly soft. And then someone else took her other hand, and she could feel her hair being smoothed back by a larger, more weathered hand. That was Erik, she could be certain.

Were they speaking to her? She wasn't sure. There was still that unbearable temptation to just fall back to sleep, but no, it was very important that she wake up. She needed to tell Erik that Raoul had a gun and that he might shoot someone if he wasn't careful.

She tried to process words in her head. She had to speak, she had to open her mouth, but it seemed as if every word she knew in every language had been thrown into the same swimming pool, and she now had the difficult task of finding the right ones.

She could find the word for 'gun', but she wasn't sure what language it was in. And she didn't have anything to connect it to. She struggled to remember it, but her mind was a very narrow, greyish sort of place where thought was blurred. She couldn't think too deeply, the fog that surrounded her mind was too dense to penetrate.

Maybe if she just called for Erik he would know what she meant? She tried. She tried experimentally forming sounds, speaking, but all that came out was a vague sort of murmur, no decipherable words.

Was Erik even there? Where were they, anyway? She decided it was about time she opened her eyes, if not for assessing her location at least so she could see who was speaking so rapidly and frantically, because it was giving her a headache.

But nothing came. Nothing happened. She sunk back deeper into her slumber, pulling herself up just before she slid too deep.

No.

It was time to wake up.

* * *

Erik cried when Christine finally woke up.

He literally started to sob, because it had been the hardest week of his life as she recovered from her surgery and on several occasions, almost died. On the fifth day he had hope when she moved her fingers, and on the sixth she smiled. On the seventh she seemed to be trying to speak, to say something, but that was before her body tried to give out again, making that the third time in a week.

So, he and Nadir and Madame Giry waited up all night, watching her, determined not to let her slip off again. It was the most unimaginable relief when she finally woke up the next morning that he then proceeded to slump against her bed and sob his heart out. Any onlooker would have thought she had died, for the amount of tears he shed.

Her emerald eyes were glassy and unfocused when they first opened, and she winced against the light. Madame Giry rushed to shut the blinds in the private Intensive Care coma patient room that they had been calling home for a week. First she looked to Nadir, who was leaning by her bedside and had, in the process of the week, began praying to a god that he had always thought did not, and could not exist.

And then she looked to Madame Giry, who had swooped down on her to do sensible things like adjust her blankets and check the machines that had been beeping away for a week.

And finally, her eyes moved slowly to Erik, who had grabbed a hold of one of her hands and was pressing his lips to it very firmly. He must have looked a complete mess, his hair in disarray and his mask long gone, with his cheeks streamed with tears. He had been forced by the practical Madame Giry to do all the sensible, day to day things like shower and tend to Gustave, but he didn't care one jolt about his appearance anymore.

"Pistole."

He frowned in confusion when she spoke, her voice scratchy and weak. Madame Giry forced a mouthful of water down her throat immediately.

"What did she say?" Nadir frowned.

"She... she said 'gun' in German," he murmured, holding tighter to her hand. What did she mean? Why was she speaking German?

"Erik... Erik, R – Raoul has a gun," she continued, now speaking in French. Her words seemed jumbled and fell awkwardly on her tongue, as if she had forgotten how to speak properly. "He has a gun. You have to hide," she insisted firmly, trying to rise from the bed, but Nadir and Madame Giry only pushed her back.

So, Erik started to laugh. It wasn't an amused chuckle; it was a real, genuine laugh that spoke more of relief than anything else.

"Christine... Christine, Raoul is gone," Madame Giry murmured. Christine looked to her in surprise, and then gave a relieved sigh, sinking back into the bed.

"He didn't shoot anyone?" she asked with sudden concern, and Erik continued to snigger.

"Yes. _You_," he said bluntly, reaching forwards and smoothing back her dark hair. She seemed very surprised to hear this.

"Oh. That's why it hurts," she replied thoughtfully, staring down at her chest where the bullet had hit her. Nadir looked to Erik with a confused frown, and he quickly translated. When he had done, Nadir too shared his chuckles.

"Oh, Christine..." he sighed, looking to her with a gentle smile.

"Can I sleep now?" Christine begged Erik. He leant forwards and pressed a soft kiss to her mouth.

"Yes, angel. You can sleep now, you deserve a rest," he smiled. In a few seconds she drifted off into sleep.

She woke up sometime later after sleeping for a good eight hours, and this time she had a great deal more energy. She was able to sit up and have a glass of water and demand that she be allowed to brush her teeth. She was still very hazy and not everything was really connecting for her.

Once Madame Giry had assisted her in completing a few small tasks, like brushing her teeth, putting on a pair of her own pyjamas and going to the bathroom instead of using a catheter tube, she returned to her bed with a lot more comfort.

"Where's Erik?" she questioned Nadir almost sleepily as she sunk into the sheets, and ran her hand over the quilted blanket Madame Giry had brought from home to make her feel a little more comfortable.

He's just gone to get someone. He'll be back in a few minutes," he smiled, reaching for her hand. Nadir and Erik had both been standing vigil by her bedside, and she couldn't love either of them more for it.

Erik did indeed return a few minutes later, with Gustave in arms. Meg had been putting herself to use and was babysitting Gustave, who didn't sleep well at all in the hospital, even when Erik brought in his bassinet and placed it by his mother's side. So during the night, Meg would stay at Erik's apartment and tend to the baby, before bringing him to the hospital in the morning.

"I have someone you might want to meet," Erik announced when he returned to the room.

Christine stared at the bundle in disbelief. She felt her chest tighten, and that wasn't just the wound from where Raoul had shot her. She made a noise halfway between a sob and a whimper when the baby was placed into her arms, blinking up at his mother with his pale, milky blue eyes.

He smiled.

She cried.

Nadir and Madame Giry left the room without making any comment, and Erik slid into the bed beside Christine, wrapping one arm around her waist as she leant her head on his chest, and the two stared down at their baby.

"He does look like a Gustave," Christine smiled, wiping away her tears. Gustave gurgled and stuck his arm out, so she reached for it and watched in disbelief as he wrapped his tiny fingers around one of hers. "He looks like you," she added with a laugh, turning to Erik.

"Mm. I'm just glad we don't bear too strong a resemblance," he said with a wry smile, gesturing to his face.

"You aren't wearing your mask," she murmured quietly. He smiled, and nodded.

"Yes. I barely even noticed, I was too caught up with keeping an eye on you. I've gotten a few strange looks, but no one has tried to hunt me down with a pitchfork. I ran into a doctor who thought it was utterly fascinating," he drawled, rolling his eyes. "He wants to operate. He thinks he's developed some sort of skin-grafting technique that wouldn't be as risky," he explained.

"You don't need to change your face, Erik," she said softly. He shrugged.

"I'll think about it."

And with that, the matter was closed, and they continued to focus on their son. Erik told her of how well-behaved he was, of how he hardly ever cried and of how a simple song could soothe him when he did. He told her of how terrified he had been for the first few days in the hospital, watching over him, and then of how Nadir had shown him how to feed and change him by himself.

"I've ordered all the furniture for his nursery back at the castle, Madame Sorelli and Jammes will set everything up before we get there, they were so excited to hear the news," Erik chuckled after they had sat there for a full hour, just staring at their son.

"Which room will be his?" she questioned suddenly. Erik frowned thoughtfully.

"Well, I thought perhaps the room just across the hall?" he suggested with a slight shrug. She shook her head.

"No, my room. Make my room the nursery, I don't want to be running across the hall when he's crying," she insisted. Erik smiled at the thought.

"And you would be happy to give up your room? Mine is a little intimidating, I recall you saying," he chuckled. She shrugged.

"Perhaps I'll redecorate it," she mused with a playful smile. Erik groaned, and rolled his eyes.

"Well, at least it will give us something to do when we go home."

Christine sunk back into Erik's chest with a tired, relieved sigh.

"It's all over," she murmured. She felt him smooth back her hair.

"We're free."

"I know that he just about destroyed my life, but..." she trailed off with a pained sigh. "I think there were two Raouls. The boy who saved my scarf when I was a child, the boy I played with in the summer, and then the monster who almost killed you. Who could have killed my son," she explained, as Erik stiffened beside her. "I hate that monster. But I'm very sad that the boy is dead, even though I think he's been gone for a long time," she continued, wiping her eyes as she felt tears sting them. "He was never like that before I went missing. Sometimes I wonder if... if it's perhaps my –"

"Christine, it was never your fault," Erik insisted firmly. "Raoul had everything he wanted, that's why he seemed a pleasant young man. But when that was taken away from him the monster broke free, he was always there," he explained, his voice stern but gentle.

"And Philippe... God, what about Ana?" she exclaimed in sudden horror.

"She's fine. I told her she's welcome to move in with us. She's in Marseilles right now, packing, I suppose. She'll be at the castle with her children when we arrive," he informed her softly. She sighed in relief.

"And her baby?"

"A little girl, Freida," he smiled.

"She always loved that name, but Philippe said she could only use French names," she laughed, softly running her finger across Gustave's cheek in disbelief. Her smile faded. "I'm angry with him for doing that. For dying like that. It's going to hang over us for a long time, but it's not our fault," she murmured bitterly.

"Philippe fascinated me. I think that had I been born into a family such as his, without this face, I might very well have ended up exactly the same. There but for the Grace of God," he smiled wryly. Christine shook her head.

"No, you're better than he is. You're a better person than he ever was," she insisted. He sighed, and leant against the pillows.

"Because you made me. It makes me wonder if he could have been a good man, had he the sense to fall in love with you," he said thoughtfully. "I'm a little sad, really. He was like me, you know," he added. Christine nodded.

"Yes. I thought so, when I met him again. I just assumed he had a nice voice before I met you, before I understood what it was," she agreed.

"I must admit, I have slightly ulterior motives for wanting Ana to move in with us. The boy, Valentin, I've heard him speak, and the oldest girl. They came to visit, I think they have a lot of potential," he explained. Christine laughed, and shook her head.

"Well, at least you'll have your choir, then," she smiled.

"Well, the boy will be a baritone, like his father. I'm hoping Gustave will have the same range as me, but assuming the three girls can sing, we'll still need one or two more," he began eagerly. "I think Ana's girls are going to be altos, although Freida seems to wail at a very high pitch, so we'll see. Any daughter of ours would of course be a soprano, so theoretically we should have a nice balance," he continued. Christine laughed at his excitement. Trust Erik to see children as musical instruments.

"Are you happy?" she asked suddenly. He stopped rambling, and tilted her head back so he could meet her eyes.

"Very. I never thought I would ever be a husband or a father, but... Christine, this is more than I could have ever imagined. All of this. I – I have _family_, and I've never had that before," he insisted. Christine smiled, and pressed a kiss to the side of his chin.

"So, there will be you and I and Gustave, Ana and Freida and Valentin and Georgette and Monique, and then Nadir and perhaps Madame Giry and Meg, at least while the theatre is being repaired... we're going to have a very lively castle," Christine laughed.

"I'm not complaining. I'm sick of silence," he smiled.

"And there won't be any ghosts chasing us? We're not going to be arrested for anything?" she questioned nervously. Erik shook his head.

"No, that's all been taken care of. Were Raoul and Philippe alive, they would be charged, but there's nothing they can accuse us of. We did no wrong, and the managers aren't interested in suing me for anything. They apparently had taken out a flood policy a few days before the gala," he drawled, rolling his eyes.

"So... we're finally free?" Christine smiled. Erik nodded.

"Yes, we are."

With that, Gustave started to gurgle and demand his parent's attention, which they were of course happy to bestow on him. Nadir and Madame Giry returned a few minutes later, and then Meg after them. That night they received a call from Ana, who affirmed that she would indeed be joining them at the castle in a few weeks.

"So what's next, then? You can't seriously plan on just going back to the castle without any adventure?" Nadir challenged, sitting on the end of Christine's bed as she cooed to Gustave.

"I think a little boredom would be very welcome. At least until we get sick of it," Erik chuckled, sharing a meaningful glance with Christine.

"I'll be coming back. Maybe not to this theatre, but I'll be performing. And Erik, too, if I can convince him," she smiled, looking up from her son. "But you're coming with us, right? To the castle?" she questioned suddenly. Nadir looked to her in surprise.

"Do you really want me there?" he exclaimed, glancing to Erik, who merely rolled his eyes.

"Of course I do! I couldn't bear for you to go back to Iran!" she insisted, before picking up Gustave and turning him so he faced Nadir. "You'll make Gustave cry. He'll miss you," she insisted, holding his little arms out as if to embrace Nadir, who was now laughing heartily.

"Christine, babies aren't toys," he chuckled.

"Yes he is. He's a very lifelike doll," she giggled.

"I think I'll have to come, at least to give you parenting lessons," Nadir sniggered.

"We're good parents," Erik defended. Nadir rolled his eyes.

"Of course, Erik. Remind me who tried to teach his thirteen day old son to play the piano?" he challenged.

"Erik, he's too little!" Madame Giry scolded.

"There's a little toy piano in the apartment. Is that Gustave's?" Meg questioned curiously.

"Perhaps," Erik murmured slightly sheepishly. Christine rolled her eyes.

"Can we wait until he can at least sit up before he becomes a piano master?" she requested her husband.

"But he has to start young."

"I think, Nadir, they're going to need both of us," Madame Giry smiled.

"Well, we want both of you, regardless. You too, Meg, but you might have to fight with Jammes for babysitting duties," Erik commented, as if wanting them all in his home was the most natural thing on earth.

"Since when were you so welcoming?" Nadir questioned Erik with a suspicious frown. Erik replied in Farsi, which usually meant he was saying something rude. And by Nadir's chuckles and shaking of his head, he probably had.

"Things are going to be different now. This has been a mad year. I just want to relax a little with the people I care about," Erik shrugged, turning back to those who did not speak Farsi.

Christine smiled down to her son.

"You know, your Papa used to only care about himself," she sighed, pulling him into her arms. Gustave gurgled happily.

"I did not."

"Yes, you did," Nadir objected.

"Shut up, Daroga."

Christine laughed, and pressed a soft kiss to Gustave's brow.

"But he's changed, now, so don't worry," she assured him. She looked up to see Erik staring at her with a soft smile, which she returned.

Perhaps he hadn't changed, she realised. After all, the Erik sitting beside her, her husband, her teacher, the father of her child, that was the same Erik who had made a promise to her own father many years ago to always protect and care for her.

And, despite a few rocky turns along the way, he had fulfilled his promise to her.

And she knew that no matter which Erik it was, whether it be her husband or her teacher or the father of her child, or even the cranky composer who barked out orders and made inappropriate jokes in Farsi, he would always be there to keep that promise.

So she made one of her own. That she would love him, no matter what. For most people, that didn't seem like a lot. But for Erik, who had been denied love for most of his life, she knew that would be the most precious gift she could give.

And she was happy to give her love, for as long as he was happy to take it.

**A/N: Oh, wow! Only one chapter left! Jeez, it'll be so weird not publishing this story all the time... but then again, I might keep myself occupied with some Harry Potter fanfic now that the last movie has come out! I cried, really. Burst into tears about ten seconds into the previews, and drowned my sorrows in gummy-worms. Terribly sad. **

**So, only the epilogue left, then! I will have a nice long touchy-feely author's note in the last chapter, I swear. Right now, I fancy a cup of tea. **


	49. The Epilogue

On a cool morning in Paris six years later, Christine reached for Erik's hand tightly, sensing his nervousness. He entwined his fingers with hers, and raised her hand to his lips to press a kiss against her knuckles as they waited.

"Monsieur? I have the information, everything you could possibly wish to know about your former life," announced the chirpy archivist Bayard as he stepped into the room. Erik tensed immediately.

"You found something?" he questioned with surprise, as the man seated himself behind his desk.

"I found everything. Well, everything up until 1979, when you disappeared from our records," he smiled, pushing the folder across the desk to sit before Erik, who stared at it with disbelieving eyes. "I don't know where you went or what happened to you, but, Monsieur, I think there is a great deal of information you might wish to know," he continued, obviously pleased with his findings.

"How... How can you be sure it's my history? That it's my past?" he demanded, his voice wary and tense. Bayard smiled, his weathered skin wrinkling around his dark brown eyes.

"Because everything you told me matches perfectly, and your DNA doesn't lie. I think you'll be surprised, when you read the file," he said, nodding to the folder on his desk before the couple.

Erik shook his head.

"I don't want to read it. I don't want to know," he insisted firmly. Christine reached for his arm.

"Erik, you've been waiting for so long to have –"

"I blocked out those first years for a _reason_, Christine, and I don't want to know that reason," he practically snapped, moving to rise from his chair. "We should never have come here. I have a family _now_, and that's all that matters," he said firmly.

Christine reached for his arm, and pulled him back to the chair.

"Erik, you're being foolish. You've wanted to know this for so long. And what happens when Gustave and Angeline ask you questions about where you came from?" she demanded. Erik scowled, and reluctantly took his seat.

"I still don't want to know. You read it," he grumbled, pushing the file towards her. Christine stared at it warily.

"Really?"

"Yes, please, Christine, just tell me the basics. Just tell me what I should know," he demanded, his eyes pleading. She leant across to press a kiss to his cheek, and then picked up the manila folder with tentative fingers. Bayard watched on eagerly.

"You were born in 1970, in Prague," she began, her eyes scanning the document.

"That makes me… forty-two," he frowned thoughtfully, before nodding. "That seems about right, it fits in with what I thought anyway," he decided with a slight shrug.

"So you're… eighteen years older than me," she murmured with surprise, chewing her bottom lip, before glancing to him with a small smile. "You look quite good for your forties, you know," she smiled. He rolled his eyes.

"Keep going," he commanded her with a tiny smile. She turned back to the file.

"Your mother's name was Karina, she was half Czechoslovakian, half Russian. She died in 1984," she continued, her voice growing soft. "I'm sorry," she murmured, turning to him.

"How did she die?" he questioned curiously.

"Pneumonia. She was in an institution," she muttered with a frown.

"Karina Garnier was in and out of institutions and hospitals from 1979 onwards," Bayard informed the couple. Erik looked up suddenly.

"What name did you just say?" he questioned with disbelief.

"Uh – Karina Garnier?" he repeated, unsure of his client's confusion.

"My father. Who was he?" Erik demanded Christine instantly, turning back to her with an anxious expression.

"Sacha Garnier, he died when you were two," she answered diligently. Erik started to chuckle, and turned to Bayard.

"Any relation to Charles Garnier?" he questioned with a raised brow. Bayard lifted his brows in surprise.

"Funny you should ask that. Yes, I believe you are his great-great grandson, or something of the like," he replied informatively. Erik continued to snigger.

"Is this the same Charles Garnier that designed the opera house?" Christine questioned with surprise. Erik nodded, pressing his fist to his lips to keep him from laughing aloud. "That's a bit of a coincidence, Erik," she muttered sternly. He nodded again.

"I know. It certainly explains a lot," he chuckled breathily. Christine rolled her eyes, and continued reading.

"You had a sister who was born a few months after your father died. She died in 1979," she murmured. "Her name was Isabelle. And you had an older brother, as well, Michel. He died in 1979 as well," she frowned.

"I'm beginning to grow wary about this 1979 date," Erik muttered thoughtfully.

"What's this?" Christine questioned, pulling out a number of letters from the file.

"They're reports from the social services in the different countries the Garnier family lived in between 1970 and 1979," the Bayard informed her. She picked up the first one.

"'… _we are concerned about the state of health for the children… the eldest and youngest appear to be treated satisfactorily, however the younger boy…'_" she read aloud, frowning as she went, before giving a sudden gasp. "Oh, Erik, they kept you –"

"In the cellar, I know. And I was tied to something," he murmured quietly, memories swirling around his muddied mind.

"T – The boiler. They tied you to the boiler," she replied, raising her hands to her mouth. "'…_ his health is of serious concern… he appears to bear a severe facial infection… despite his seclusion, he is developmentally incredibly advanced, with abnormally high intelligence…_'" she continued, with a small smile. "Well, at least they got that correct," she added, as Erik rolled his eyes.

"I remember there were books down there, puzzles, old board games and books, things they hadn't found time to throw out," he recalled, before suddenly shaking his head. "What happened in 1979? I want to know," he demanded. Christine sifted through papers anxiously, before finding a coroner's report.

"'_It is assumed that as the body of the youngest boy could not be discovered in the crime scene, that he also perished in the fire… the incident is to be regarded as suspicious, due to the circumstances of the incident, the state of Karina Garnier's mental health, and the reported theft of a diamond ring that disappeared from the scene…_'" she read slowly. "There was a fire. Your brother and sister died, but no one ever found your body. They assumed you were dead too," she practically whispered, turning to Erik with wide, tearful eyes.

He was leaning forwards, his eyes closed tightly as memories swum before his vision. Memories he had spent years trying to forget.

"I know. I can – I can still hear them," he whispered, running a hand through his dark hair. Christine reached for his hand, and he held hers tightly. "She did it. I remember now, she started the fire so she – she could get rid of me, the others weren't meant to die," he murmured painfully. "God, she hated me. She _despised_ me. She kept me in the cellar with a bag over my head so she didn't have to look at me," he practically spat.

"Erik, she might not have been as bad as you think," she whispered quietly. He scoffed.

"Oh, and what makes you think that?" he demanded curtly.

"Because she named you Angel."

He looked up with surprise, his jaw slackening slightly.

"What?"

"Your name was Angel. Angel Garnier," she repeated slowly. "Angel Sacha Garnier, born on the 8th of August, 1970, in Prague. And there's a letter," she informed him, pulling out a plain white envelope with '_Angel_' in shaky script on the front.

"It was in Karina Garnier's room when she died at the institution. Apparently she used to tell the nurses that her Angel was going to take her away because of the horrible things she had done. She was convinced you never died," Bayard said suddenly.

Erik stared at it in silence.

"Have you read it?" he questioned finally, glancing to the man. He nodded.

"Yes. It's an apology, of sorts. I think you should read it," he suggested. Erik glared at the letter in Christine's hand as if it were about to burst into flames.

"What else is in there?" he demanded of her, turning his gaze away from the letter. She passed him a few photographs that were in the file. "Hmm. None of me, I see," he muttered almost bitterly. He glanced over the face of his father, his brother and sister, and finally stared into his mother's face.

"She was very beautiful. She looks a lot like you," Christine commented softly. Erik gave a small 'hmm', and passed the photographs back.

"Is that it?" he questioned finally.

"There are some more reports from social services, and –" Christine stopped as she picked up a piece of paper. She looked up with disbelief to Bayard, who was grinning.

"I was waiting for you to get to that bit. I like it when this happens," he admitted eagerly.

"What is it?" Erik questioned.

"Your inheritance," she answered, passing him the form. His brows rose slightly.

"Oh. Well, that's a lot of money," he muttered with surprise.

"Oh yes. A _lot_ of money," the archivist grinned. Erik glanced to Christine.

"Well, we don't really need it, do we?" he questioned with a shrug.

"I don't think so," she answered simply. He sighed.

"Alright, well, we might as well, we'll find something," he decided, placing the form on the desk. Bayard's face fell with disappointment, and he gave a slightly bitter huff.

"Well, this means that you have an official birth certificate, which is in the file, and there will need to be some modifications to your children's documentation, as well as your marriage certificate and Romani status," he informed them as they slipped the piece of paper detailing Erik's inheritance into the folder. "You have... two children, I believe?" he questioned, glancing between them.

"Three, soon," Christine smiled, placing a hand on her gently swelling stomach.

"I could tell the press and all of Paris would be gossiping about it, you know," Bayard chuckled.

"When are they not?" she sighed, reaching for her husband's hand. It was true. Christine Danté was certainly the most famous opera singer in Europe, if not the world, and her composing husband had just as much fame attached to him, if not ten times the mystery.

"Is it true you're retiring?" he asked Christine, his voice hushed, as if there were people listening to them even in that office. She laughed, and shook her head.

"No, not yet. I'm barely twenty-four! My performing life isn't over yet, just because I'm having another baby," she assured him, before glancing to her husband. "But I'm hoping this is the last one. I love my children to death, but I can't stand his fretting when I'm pregnant," she laughed, her emerald eyes twinkling with good humour.

Erik rolled his eyes and hid a smile.

"Those rumours fire up every time we go back down South at the end of the opera season," he replied, dryly waving the man off. "So, how do we proceed now? I don't want to change my name to Angel, I chose Erik for a reason," he insisted firmly.

"Well, you'll have to see _la mairie _for that, and to make the modifications to your documentation," Bayard explained, pulling forth a business card. "Tell them that I sent you, they deal with displaced people every now and then, so they should help you make this a reasonably quick process," he added with a comforting smile.

"We'll go now, then. I want to get this over and done with as soon as possible," Erik decided, slipping the business card into his pocket and taking out his check book before settling the bill for his life's story.

"And we can take this?" Christine questioned, gesturing to the file. Bayard nodded.

"Yes, I have copies of everything. But all that information is rightfully yours, monsieur. Please, take it home, go through it in some more detail, and if you need anymore assistance, please don't hesitate to contact me," he answered, rising from his chair. "Oh, and I saw you in _Madame Butterfly_ a few weeks ago, you were wonderful," he smiled to Christine as she stood with her husband's assistance.

"Thank you. And thank you for all you've done for us," she replied kindly, as he led the couple to the door.

"That's my job, Madame," he smiled, before they bid him goodbye and left his office.

Erik gave a long sigh of relief when they stepped outside into the Parisian streets. Christine reached for his hand to comfort him. He was always nervous when he went out in public, even though with every year his mask got smaller and smaller as medical advances and his own will began to fade his deformity. It would never be perfect, but at least it was improving.

"So. Angel Garnier," she smiled, leaning into his arm and looking up at him, trying to read his troubled expression. "Are you alright?" she asked softly, and he nodded.

"Yes. It's just... strange. Suddenly having a past. An identity. I'm not used to it yet," he replied, almost tiredly. "Alright then, let's go to _la mairie_. We still have a few hours before our flight, and I can have them postpone it if necessary," he decided, stepping forwards to call a taxi on the street.

Christine didn't ask him probing questions as they dealt with the issues of his name and his identity and their two children's identities, as well as their marriage certificate and his Romani status. They were late for their flight by the time things had all been organised, but the benefit of having a private plane meant the departure time was a little more flexible.

In actuality, the plane belonged to Ana, who had inherited it from her deceased husband, along with the entire de Chagny fortune and estate quite recently with the death of Madame Adelphie de Chagny, Raoul and Philippe's mother. But as Ana had moved into the castle with her four children six years ago, she had no qualms about sharing her vast wealth.

It was late afternoon by the time they arrived back in the south of France and had driven from the airport to the castle, and the place was just as lively as ever.

"Georgette! Georgette, give me back my doll!" six-year-old Freida wailed, running after her eldest sister with her pigtails flying madly about her.

"Freida, you mustn't run on the staircase!" Gustave called out sternly, dashing behind the young girl with concern over his young face. An army of five children were all running from the staircase and across the grand foyer to greet Erik and Christine as they returned home.

"Monique, Georgette, Valentin, be careful with Christine," Erik commanded as the three eldest practically threw themselves to their 'Aunt Christine' the moment she stepped through the door.

"Let me through! Let me through!" Freida complained, jumping up and down behind the heads of her brother and sisters as they crowded around their most beloved Aunt.

"Papa, they're not letting Freida hug Mama!" Gustave exclaimed, tugging on his father's jacket sleeve.

"Oh, poor Freida, don't worry, I haven't forgotten you," Christine laughed, bending down to allow the youngest of Ana's children to hug her tightly. "Have you seen Angeline, my darling? Don't tell me you left her with Nadir all day?" she questioned, raising a brow.

"She's _sleeping_, Auntie. Gustave said she was too little to play with us," she explained, tugging on one of her pigtails as she spoke.

"_Gustave_," Erik growled, turning to his young son. "Where did you put your sister _this_ time?" he demanded, as Gustave looked around nervously.

"In the piano, Papa," he mumbled weakly, as the others began to giggle.

"Lord, one of these days you'll be the death of me, Gustave," Erik cursed beneath his breath, before walking hastily across the foyer to the music room, Christine following closely behind with her son and the other four children clutching to her skirt as she walked.

"Papa!" Angeline called out excitedly, her head popping out from the open grand piano lid. She held her arms out in expectation as her father swiftly crossed the room and pulled her out, along with her blanket and her toy monkey. "Papa, I _sleeping_," she giggled, pressing her finger to her lips and making a loud shushing noise, her emerald eyes twinkling with exhilaration.

"Of course you are, sweetheart," he smiled, bouncing his three-year-old daughter up and down slightly in his arms, before balancing her on his hip and pressing a kiss to her brow. He loved both of his children very, very much, but Angeline was quite the 'Daddy's Girl', and she was most certainly the apple of his eye. "Gustave, if you do that one more time, I'll be putting _you_ in the piano, and I'll play the Turkish March. You've been warned," he threatened. Gustave paled with this remark, and nodded quickly.

"Sorry, Papa."

"Apologise to your sister."

"Sorry, Angeline."

"Sorry, Gustave," Angeline replied dutifully.

"No, pet, you don't have to apologise," Erik assured his daughter with a laugh. She beamed, before she was passed over to her mother.

"Come on then, little girl. It's almost time for dinner. Did you have fun today?" Christine enquired, before she was bombarded with reports from all six children about the games they had played together in the castle and of how they had found a rabbit in the garden who they tried to catch with carrots.

"I can hear you all from the other end of the castle!" Ana laughed, joining them in the music room with a warm smile on her face, before Freida practically threw herself into her mother's arms. Freida was the youngest of the de Chagny's, and was thus teased quite mercilessly, so sought her mother's attention at every opportunity. But they were all very good children who loved each other to death.

"Sorry, were they a handful today?" Christine questioned apologetically, wincing slightly as Angeline made it her mission to plait her mother's hair. Or rather, to tie random locks into bows.

"Madame Sorelli gave them some sugar biscuits this morning, so they've been running around like mad all day. Nadir has had to lie down, they were so draining," she laughed. "Come on, Angeline; let's give Mama a little break. It's almost time for dinner, and then bath time. And you love bath time, don't you?" she smiled, taking Angeline into her arms to spare the almost five-month pregnant Christine the strain. "Come along then you lot, let's see if they need help to finish dinner," Ana instructed, turning round to the army of children standing around her.

"Are you coming, Erik?" Christine enquired, turning back to her husband.

"Mm, later. Gustave and I will have a music lesson, I think," Erik replied, removing the last of the toys from inside his precious piano.

"Really?" Gustave exclaimed excitedly.

"Can I stay with Gustave, Auntie Christine?" Freida asked, her voice hushed and her cheeks red. Christine smiled and patted back the girl's bright blonde hair.

"It's your turn for a music lesson tomorrow morning, Freida. And then you and Gustave can practise together," she replied, before leading the girl out of the music room.

Nadir made an appearance just in time for dinner. He often complained that the children were too distracting for his work and that he needed extra sleep to compensate for the energy he spent playing with them. But Nadir was no doubt very happy in the castle.

Christine had expected, or rather hoped, that he would call his estranged wife when everything had settled down in the castle six years ago. After all of the strain and drama that had passed in Paris, she had thought that he would be missing her more than ever. But her ideas for a happily ever after for Nadir were quite different from the reality. He spoke to Rookheya every now and then, but as of yet neither of them were interested in resuming their relationship, even though the pain of losing their son was almost ten years old. They both lacked the drive and the will to love each other again. It was difficult for Christine to accept this part of him, his passivity.

"I've never burnt or smouldered or anything of the sort, Christine," he would often assure her when she tried the issue. He might hold her hands in his impossibly smooth dark palms, or she would curl up comfortably by his side, with Gustave or Angeline sleeping against her chest. Angeline adored Nadir, and he had a special fondness for her, too. "I'm not passionate. I couldn't keep up with you, and that's alright. I have a family again, and that's more than I could ever have hoped for. I'm happy, I truly am. I can rest, now," he would insist, ending the conversation.

She supposed that was why she could never love Nadir as much as she loved Erik. But that was alright. Nadir was content, which was a much underrated state of being. He seemed perfectly happy to move on from the shadows of his past and work freelance as an architect from the castle in the South of France, and even spoke the language tolerably, although most of the children were fluent in several languages already, so there wasn't much point in him learning.

And Christine couldn't be happier that Nadir had chosen to live with them indefinitely, particularly as the violence in his home country escalated. Nadir was a great help with all the children, as well as an almost father figure to Ana's children. And Ana was flourishing in the castle, and although she had a grand Marseilles château of her own, she had no intention of leaving. And along with Meg and Madame Giry in the summer, the castle was very full for much of the year. At least until Christine, Erik, Gustave and Angeline would fly up to Paris for the opera season, where Christine was the star of the newly restored and well-managed Palais Garnier. Erik had taken over management a few years ago after André and Firmin had decided to return to the scrap metal business, and the opera house had never been doing better.

And life had been very sweet for the past few years. It was perhaps that sweetness and contentment which gave fuel to the one niggling little question in the back of all their minds. When they found out Christine was pregnant with their third child Erik decided it was time he finally addressed what he had done so well to hide, and they sought help from Paris' best Private Investigator.

And now... now they knew. A decade was hidden in a manila folder; a decade of pain and loneliness and rejection, but it was a decade which made Erik into the man he was.

"Nadir, you haven't seen Erik, have you?" Christine frowned later that night when she passed the Persian in the hall, just before dinner was being served.

"I think he's still in the music room with Gustave, Christine," he replied, peering over her shoulder to see a pair of big emerald eyes sparkling from behind a mane of glossy chestnut curls. "Well, Princess. Did you forget you were going to draw me a house this afternoon? I was looking forwards to seeing what you could design," he admonished his goddaughter, who was hanging around her mother's neck, skinny little legs tucked around Christine's hips.

"I forget," Angeline admitted, eyes wide and pink lips quivering. "I sorry, Nadir! I draw you a house after dinner," she swore, nodding vigorously. Nadir chuckled before stepping behind Christine and picking up the toddler, swinging her over his shoulder. She giggled and kicked her little legs with delight.

"That's alright; we'll find a suitable punishment, Princess. Perhaps I'll make you do _all _my work. You can design buildings for me for the rest of your life," he laughed, tickling her feet for good measure, as she squealed.

"Mama! Help!" she giggled, her cheeks pink and her eyes bright. Nadir swung her back over so she sat in his arms, her small fingers fisting in his dark hair for support.

"Would you mind fetching Erik for dinner? Ana and I were just about to round up the others," Christine requested, smiling softly at their camaraderie.

"What do you think, Princess? Shall we go off on a big adventure to find your Papa?" Nadir suggested to the young girl, who nodded excitedly. "We'll be there in a minute," he assured Christine with a smile, before turning in the direction of the music room.

Nadir really didn't mind looking after the children. It reminded him of Reza, and of how much he enjoyed being a father. He was better equipped to nurture and gently guide than he was to love with the kind of passion that Erik and Christine had. He'd had enough of being burned.

"Erik, old friend, you two have been in here for hours. You'll kill the poor boy," Nadir said sternly, pushing open the door to the music room. It was as he had expected, Erik and Gustave crouched over the piano, completely forgetting how long they had been there. They were so alike, those two.

"Gustave, you should have told me," Erik scolded his son, glancing up to the clock above the mantle.

"I forgot," he apologised, blushing slightly. Erik sighed, and ruffled the boy's hair with a reluctant smile tugging on his lips. They both knew that he had not forgotten; he would do anything to prolong their music lessons.

"Christine asked me to fetch you two for dinner," Nadir said, allowing Angeline to scramble out of his grip and run on unsteady feet to throw herself at her father.

"Alright, I've got you, darling," Erik chuckled, bending down to pick up the girl and cradle her in his arms.

"Papa, I gonna draw Nadir a picture."

"Oh, really, Angel? What will you draw him?"

"A house."

"Yes, the houses he draws aren't anywhere near as beautiful as yours, pet," Erik chuckled, ignoring the withering glare his old friend sent him. "Alright, my darling, you go to dinner. Tell your mother I'll eat later," he instructed, pressing a kiss to Angeline's soft brown curls, and depositing her on the ground again.

"_Papa_, Mama said it's time for dinner!" she insisted, throwing out her bottom lip and looking up at her father pleadingly.

"Gustave, take your sister. You did well today, but we still have a lot to work on," he nodded to his son.

"Yes, Papa."

Nadir watched in silence as Gustave took Angeline's hand and led her from the music room, ignoring her loud protests. Erik loved his children, but he did not spoil them.

Not too much, at least. Erik probably didn't need to give them each a pony for their second birthdays.

"So. A full day today," Nadir said with a wry smile when the children were out of earshot. Erik mindlessly picked out an ostinato on the piano, his pale eyes seeming to stare into nothing.

"Yes. It was."

"Do you regret looking?" he probed, when Erik made no further answer.

"I honestly don't know," he shrugged, with a heavy sigh. "I knew it was going to be bad. I would never have blocked it out if it hadn't been bad," he murmured, sounding suddenly very weary.

"It's not who you are, you know. You rejected it," Nadir gently reminded him.

"They're all dead, Daroga," Erik sighed, after a long silence.

"I thought they would be."

"It was a relief, almost. I wondered if anyone was looking for me, and I was always... disappointed. At least I know it's because..." he trailed off painfully, before giving a wry chuckle. "Well, it's done now. This doesn't change much. I'm keeping my name, I'm keeping my identity," he insisted.

"I knew you would," Nadir smiled, before bowing his head slightly. "Alright, I'm going to dinner. We can talk later, if you want. Shall I have Jammes bring you a plate?" he asked, stepping back towards the door.

Erik shook his head.

"No. I'm fine."

With that, Nadir quit the room. He hadn't cared very much about Erik finding out his past. It was not who he was, anymore. No man could change himself so drastically if he was tied to the traumas of his youth. Erik was much stronger than that manila folder.

"Oh, he's such a big baby," Christine muttered when Nadir appeared in the dining room a few moments later, making excuses for Erik's absence.

"I think he's just tired, Christine. He's had a hard day," he patiently reminded her. She sighed, and rose from her place at the table.

"You sit, Nadir. I'm going to see how he's doing," she huffed, detangling herself from Freida and Angeline, who were somehow both sitting on her lap as they smothered mashed potatoes over their faces.

"Do you want me to come with you?" Ana offered, ushering the girls into their own seats.

"No, I expected this, I'll handle it," she smiled, before sweeping out of the dining room.

She found Erik still sitting at his piano, playing a soft and gentle tune she recognised from _Don Juan Triumphant_. He only ever played that opera when he was feeling isolated; it was both his masterpiece and had almost been his downfall, so it was suitable for his queer moods.

"You haven't eaten all day," Christine reminded him as she slipped silently into the room, one hand resting on the gentle swell of her stomach. Erik glanced up with a far off expression and a weak smile.

"Sorry. I'm not hungry," he murmured, before turning his gaze back to the piano. Christine sighed and crossed the room to stand behind him, slender arms wrapped elegantly around his shoulders.

"It'll take a while for all of this to sink in, Erik. You have to give yourself time," she said softly, running her slender fingers through Erik's dark hair. He was wearing his mask, which she disliked. He had grown comfortable enough to not wear it inside the castle over the past few years, and his masks, even the plain porcelain ones, frightened the youngest children much more than his face ever could.

"I don't want it to sink in. I am Erik Danté, not Angel Garnier. Never Angel," he swore, playing a little more forcefully now.

"You're my angel," she replied, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of his face. He did not respond. "Erik, this doesn't have to change you. But at least you _know_, now. Not knowing was eating you up inside," she continued, impatient with his silence.

"I could have fooled myself into thinking that once, I had a family who loved me. Perhaps they were right to hate me; maybe she saw whatever evil there was in my heart that scarred my face," he practically spat, missing a note with his venom. Christine reached forwards and slid her hands down his forearms, holding them tightly so his fingers fell silent on the keys.

"She put hatred and fear there, Erik, but you weren't born evil. She was petty and selfish and didn't deserve you. She _made_ your darker side, but you're the one who managed to work past it," she insisted firmly, her voice little more than a whisper against his ears. He scoffed, and rolled his pale eyes.

"How do you know? Why do you think she was a terrible person?" he asked dryly.

"Could you _ever_ hate Gustave? Or Angeline? Or the baby?" she demanded, knowing the answer. He was silent. "Even if they had been born scarred, could you ever bring yourself to think less of them? You adore your children, Erik, like any parent would," she insisted. "Any woman who hates a child because of their face doesn't deserve that child."

"Things would be so different if I wasn't... me," he muttered after a long, strained silence.

"You chose who you became, Erik. And you could not have chosen better."

He chuckled wryly and turned to face his wife, pulling her carefully into his lap and resting one hand over her stomach.

"So you wouldn't change my stubbornness?" he challenged with a raised brow. She rolled her emerald eyes.

"No. Of course not."

"If you had the choice, you wouldn't want me to be a little less obsessional?" he asked, but she only smiled. "Less demanding? More polite? You wouldn't even make me a little less grouchy in the mornings?" he drawled.

"No, I wouldn't change any of it," she laughed, her eyes dancing with sincerity.

"I'm going to hold that over your head when you complain about me next, then," he smirked, leaning forwards and pressing his lips against hers.

"I would expect no less from you, Erik," she smiled, resting her forehead against his. He gave a deep, contented sigh and bowed his head slightly, staring at the space between them.

"I never would have been who I am today without you, Christine. You're a great deal more than I deserve," he murmured. "Would you mind if I decided to stay Erik? I just – I don't want any of that to be a part of me, now," he asked, his voice so quiet she almost didn't hear.

"I kind of like Angel, you know," she smiled, pushing back a stray lock of his dark hair. "It suits you."

"I told you; I picked Erik for a reason. I don't want to change it," he insisted.

"Why is that? I never asked; why Erik?" she frowned slightly. She had never really thought about his name before.

"It stands for a powerful but peaceful ruler or warrior. I liked the idea that one could be strong but gentle at the same time," he answered, after a long silence. "I tried to be. I tried to keep up a defence which would protect me from the rest of the world, from their hatred. It worked until I met you," he said, smiling wryly.

"Erik, I think you should read the letter," she murmured, fighting to hold back tears. Damn hormones.

"I want to forget it again, Christine," he sighed painfully.

"Erik, you became a good man, the _best_ of men because you were able to go on after you had lost so much," she insisted, jabbing him in the chest for emphasis. "I know you don't want to know more about her, I know you're frightened that if you understood her, you wouldn't be allowed to be angry. But you have every right, and you don't need to forgive her. You just need to be better than she is," she said firmly. He sighed, and wound his arms around her waist.

"I already read it, Christine. I finished it just before you came in," he said, nodding towards the few sheets of folded writing paper sitting on the end of the piano's gleaming surface. Her eyes widened slightly in surprise.

"And? What did it say?" she asked, feeling fearful at the prospect. He reached over to pick it up, and unfolded the paper with an unpleasant expression. "May I read it?"

"No, it's in Czech," he answered, glancing over the words which were unfamiliar to Christine. "Bayard was right; it's an apology, but not much of one. She appears convinced that I was a _nalezenec_, like a... a foundling, or a changeling," he explained with a heavy sigh. "She hated me because she thought I was given to her to replace her real baby. She says she's sorry, because she never considered the pain _I _might have felt from being taken from my family in the... _podsvětí_. I think that means the Underworld," he murmured, lowering the letter.

"She was mad."

"She seems remarkably serious. I don't know what to think; she was deeply sorry that she caused the death of my brother and sister. She says she misses them more than she can bear. But she doesn't apologise for what she did to me, not really," he continued, placing the letter back atop the piano. "I don't know what to think anymore. She thought I was a demon, and yet she gave me that name. I don't understand," he murmured, suddenly sounding incredibly exhausted.

"Erik, if she never really considered you her son then you don't need to consider her your mother, you know," Christine reminded him. "I don't want you to forget or ignore your past. But you're a better man because of it. It doesn't own you, not anymore," she insisted, cupping his head in her hands.

"Thank you," he rasped, with a small, but sincere smile. "For everything. For giving me another chance at life, for giving me my music, for giving me hope, for giving me our beautiful children, for everything you've done for me."

"I'm grateful for everything you've done for me too, Erik," she assured him softly. "I'm just glad that now we can move on. We have the rest of our lives to look forward to now, Erik, and there's nothing holding us back," she added. He chuckled.

"That sounds like a challenge."

"It is. Let's travel the world. Let's write an opera together. Let's do something amazing," she beamed. Erik chuckled and rested his hand against her belly once more.

"Let's focus on one thing at a time, mm, pet?" he suggested, raising a brow. "I want one more after this, too, so we might wait before we start another adventure."

"If you want another one, _you_ can be pregnant for a change," she retorted. He laughed, and slid his arms around her hips, pulling her closer to reduce the space between them. "But we should do something big to commemorate this. That part of your life is gone, Erik. We can move on now," she insisted. He sighed, and nodded.

"Alright. I have an idea," he decided, a glimmer of something like determination flashing in his pale eyes. "But we're going to have to go outside."

* * *

"Papa, is this an adventure?" Angeline asked as they stepped outside into the cool night air, children and parents bundled up in jackets.

"Yes, my darling. It will be fun, don't worry," Erik assured his daughter, who he held cradled in his arms with Gustave sitting on his shoulders behind. "Christine, are you warm enough? Do you want me to –"

"Erik, she's _fine_, you need to lighten up," Ana laughed from behind, where she was grasping Valentine and Georgette's hands. Christine was behind her, holding a manila folder with Monique clutching to her skirts, and Nadir trailed behind with Freida hanging around his neck, babbling about how pretty the stars were.

"I'm perfectly entitled to check on my wife, Ana," Erik replied stiffly, but there was no malice in his tone. And Christine was grateful, when she was pregnant Ana was the only person who could get the better of Erik.

"I'm surprised you haven't offered to carry the child yourself to save Christine the strain, but you seem pretty willing," Ana teased.

"Now you two, please stop bickering. You're embarrassing the children," Nadir drawled, as Freida giggled into his shoulder.

"Be careful, I don't want anyone going over," Erik said sternly as the castle gates creaked open, revealing the small garden and road before the edge of the cliff.

"With all those fences you put in, Erik, I don't think anyone could if they tried," Christine called in retort.

"Papa, where are we going?" Gustave asked curiously, growing impatient on his father's shoulders.

"Just here, Gustave. Alright, Angeline, I have to put you down now," he answered, bending down. Angeline immediately made to run round excitedly, but bounced back in surprise when she pulled too hard on the length of bright pink rope linking her dressing gown with her father's trouser loop.

"_Erik_, did you put Angeline on a leash again?" Christine scolded, trying to sound severe as she resisted the urge to giggle when Angeline looked around in complete confusion.

"I'm not having her running off."

Christine huffed and shook her head as she stood by her husband's side, but she knew better than to protest. Erik took the safety of all the children to certain extremes. Once Freida had fallen down in the playroom and burned her knee, so Erik had the carpet removed and replaced with cushioning before the bruise had even formed. It was just his nature to want to protect those whom he loved. And Angeline would be taken off her leash when she was six, like the others.

"Uncle, what are we doing?" Valentine questioned Erik, appearing by Angeline's side to hold onto her little hand, Georgette grasping the other.

"When I was a boy, Valentine, I lived in a strange and frightening place where I was very unhappy," Erik announced, reaching down and taking Gustave's hand as he stared out into the dark ocean before them.

"Are you happy now, Papa?" his son asked.

"Yes, Gustave. I'm very happy now, because I have a wonderful family whom I love very much," he murmured with a gentle smile, ruffling his son's hair. Christine slipped her arms around Erik's waist from behind, and rested the side of her cheek against his arm. "I didn't remember what life was like when I was a child, but I know now. We have all had a hard life before we were able to be happy, children, so now it's time we move on. No more unhappiness, no more bad memories, it's all over," he smiled, glancing down to the crowd of children around his feet.

"Who is going first, then?" Christine murmured, glancing around. Nadir cleared his throat.

"I think I would like to," he announced, taking something from his pocket. It looked like... a ring.

"Are you sure, Nadir?" Christine murmured. He smiled, and nodded.

"Yes, it's all I've got left to get rid of, really, and I should have done it years ago. I've done this before," he said wryly, holding up the thin gold band to the moon. He kissed it, and then throw it far out into the ocean. They heard a small splash, and then nothing.

"Me next," Ana said, pulling out the folded piece of near-transparent silk from beneath her arm. "Erik, may I have the lighter?" she asked, as she stood forwards.

"Careful. You're not going to regret this?" he asked, raising a brow. She smiled, and nodded.

"Well, I could have been dramatic and thrown my jewels into the ocean, but I already got rid of those, so this is really all I have left," she shrugged, holding up the wedding veil. "They're supposed to represent innocence. I think I miss that the most," she sighed, accepting the small lighter from Erik and flicking it at the end of the veil. It only took a moment to catch, and it crackled and sizzled as the flames ate at the silk.

When the flames were growing, Ana tossed it over the cliff where it was picked up by the wind and fluttered above them for a moment. Suddenly it swooped forwards and then shuddered for a moment before spiralling down into the waves, leaving nothing but the faint smell of smoke. The children watched with wide, questioning eyes, but said nothing. They would understand one day.

"Alright, now me," Christine said, reaching into her pockets. She had three things for three painful memories.

The first was the engagement ring Raoul had given her. She threw it into the ocean without a single shred of bitterness.

The next two things were a little harder to let go. She had made the decision a long time ago that she should get rid of those two wooden white doves she had found in her parent's belongings so many years ago, but somehow she could never do it. For her it wasn't about forgetting, but rather letting go. Erik gave her a concerned glance, but she only smiled. It was the most fitting thing she could do for them, now.

She flung the first out into the ocean as far as she could, and then the second straight after. They swooped up into the air and flew further than she really thought possible before they finally dived into the ocean as a pair. She breathed deeply and wiped her eyes. They would fly, now.

"Alright, Erik, just you next," Nadir said, turning to his old friend. Erik turned to Christine and took the manila folder from her without speaking. He was not to destroy it all – whatever they felt they might need had been kept, but things like the letter and police reports and photographs would only weigh down on them.

"Alright, everyone take something," Erik said, passing out a piece of paper to each child. They peered at them curiously, but did not ask questions. When the folder was empty and each child had something, Erik handed the folder back to Christine and took something from his pocket. "Now, it's starting to get windy, so when I tell you to, I want you each to throw your papers out into the ocean, but be careful, alright?" he instructed, making sure each understood.

"What are you throwing, Papa?" Gustave asked, peering at the thing in Erik's hand. Erik smiled, and held it up to the side of his face where he usually wore a mask. Christine had make him take it off after their chat in the music room.

"Can't you tell? It's the oldest mask I have, Gustave. But I don't want it anymore, your Papa is tired of hiding," he answered, before turning back to face the sea. "Alright, when I say 'go', then? Wait for it..." he murmured, listening for the gust of wind which he knew was coming. It suddenly soared, and then with a loud cry, each child released whatever they were holding and giggled gleefully as they twisted and twirled and fluttered above and around them, like they were each caught in a whirlwind.

"Look, they're flying away!" Gustave cried, pointing as the papers swooped over the side of the cliff and seemed to hover above the ocean's surface, before a great wave came and swallowed each of them whole.

"Dey're gone, Papa," Angeline whispered, tugging on her leash. Erik glanced down with a smile.

"Yes, Angel. They're gone. It's all gone," he murmured, raising his eyes to meet those of his wife, who was smiling. He turned to Nadir and Ana, and they both nodded in understanding.

"You sad, Papa?"

"Not at all, my darling. Not one bit."

"No more memories," Nadir smiled, stepping forwards and fondly ruffling Angeline's curls.

"And no more regret," Ana added, with an energised and relieved sigh.

"No more emptiness," Christine agreed, linking hands with her husband.

"No more darkness. No more Angel."

They didn't say anything for a while. Together they just stared out into the ocean in silence, before it started to rain.

**A/N: Well, well, well. It's all over now, baby blue. Finito, done, dusted and dead. I can't picture myself writing anything else for The Phantom of the Opera in the future, so I wouldn't expect anything. I'm fiddling with a few bits and pieces I have floating around the place which I will probably upload (a Labyrinth fic, a Harry Potter fic, and perhaps some more Pride & Prejudice, if I ever get round to it) one day, but I wouldn't expect a big fic like this again. I'm pretty much done with big fics; and am moving onto big stories and novels. **

**I want to thank everyone who read and reviewed this story along the way. You were all brilliant, really. I would name names, but I try to make it a policy to avoid that. Although, there was at least one reviewer who always managed to make me smile (and crack up laughing), but like I said, you were all brilliant. I've stopped writing for reviews now, however, and I really just want constructive criticism. I'm trying to make writing my career, and I need all the advice I can get. So if you've never reviewed before, even if you don't have an account on FFN, please, just drop me a line to tell me what you thought was good, what you thought was bad, and what you feel I can improve on in the future. I'm here to improve my writing, peeps. **

**Anyway, so, I know that this fic was long. And I know that it wasn't quite what a lot of people were expecting from a POTO story, but I'm happy with how it turned out, and I'm glad that I took the time to go back and rewrite this fic. Like I said, I wouldn't expect a lot of writing from me in the near future. I'm concentrating on my manuscript and university, but I'm always happy to chat or respond to questions or queries. **

**So, thanks for reading and reviewing, and I hope you liked it. **

**Peace and love from me and my unicorns,**

**-Evie, Proserpine, Reginald and Stephen Fry (the unicorn, not the person),**

**XOXOX**


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